


Turn Me On, Dead Man!

by skyofblue_seaofgreen



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: and please don't read if u don't like sad things, anyway have fun? i guess?, like if it did happen i guess?, obviously, paul is dead! (just kidding), please don't read if you're squeamish, please please please pay attention to trigger warnings when they come up, which i know it didn't, yeah but it is about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 31,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24109141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyofblue_seaofgreen/pseuds/skyofblue_seaofgreen
Summary: DISCLAIMER: I do not believe in the Paul is Dead Theory, it’s obviously just a hoax. But this fic is explaining what would have happened if he actually did die. So, Paul is actually dead for the entire thing. If you like Paul, or don't want to read about Beatle-death, don't read this.---In the year of 1980, you happen to find a battered, dirty notebook on your front doorstep. When you look inside, you see the front page entitled 'Our Secret Is Out'. Opening the notebook, you find the most riveting, horrible secret that has ever been told: Paul McCartney is dead.
Relationships: George Harrison & John Lennon & Paul McCartney & Ringo Starr
Comments: 10
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Again, another disclaimer: I don't believe in the Paul is dead theory. Also, I don't mean any disrespect by this story at all. Please don't yell at me in the comments, because yes, I know it's a stupid hoax but it makes for good storytelling. Thanks! 🍋

I have to come clean. It’s been too much for me to carry. There’s no way I’ll get past them on the press. No way I’ll get past them in a newspaper interview. No way I’ll get past them telling _Yoko_. They’re everywhere. They’ll know.

I’m tired of this secret being such a burden on me. It’s too much for me anymore. Wherever this notebook gets, at least _somebody_ will know the secret. I need _somebody_ to know. It can’t be shut in me anymore. I have to get it out!

To whoever finds this notebook, I, John Lennon, have been keeping a massive secret for my entire career. It has changed my life for ten years, and nobody ever knew. Until now. 

To whoever finds this notebook, again...I need you to know. Paul McCartney, the _real_ Paul McCartney, is **dead**.

There you go. That’s right. All the rumors are true. Everything you’ve heard on the radio and the newspapers is true. All of it. Well, _pretty much_ all of it. I’m here to confirm it is all. I’m sitting at the kitchen table in my flat...let’s see, it’s almost 2 a.m. Yoko doesn’t know I’m out of bed, and this is the only time I can be alone with no distractions. I can’t have distractions for this. It’s too important.

I just need to get all of the information down. So I guess this is a bit of a storybook for anybody who finds this. It’s not your average dinky fairy tale, however. I guess I should get on with it now before I run out of time.

Where should I begin?

Ah, yes...at the beginning.

It was November 9th, 1966. That date is seared into my brain like a brand. It was raining, too. _Hard._ We were in the studio. Paul, me, George, and Ringo. We were knackered; we’d been touring and recording a bunch in the last few months and we were all burned out and agitated. 

Me and Paul were trying to work out the chorus of a song, I remember. I forgot which song it was, though. Eh, it wasn’t too important. It was getting unnecessarily heated on my end and his. 

See, we’d been under a lot of pressure from the fans and press recently, because of that bloody _Jesus_ comment I made. It was stupid of me and I shouldn’t have said it, that’s all I’ll say about it. But based on how the public reacted, I was sort of shown that...the Beatles could say anything and the public would listen. They would _change._ So now I knew that if we wanted something changed, we could say something and with the blink of an eye there’d be a russell about it. If only I had said something actually meaningful.

So, anyway, me and Paul are bickering about this song we’re supposed to be writing. I wanted the chorus to be vague and sort of, deep and thoughtful, I suppose, because we were starting to grow and change as musical artists. I wanted this song to reflect that, along with the others. But Paul didn’t agree. He said we were the _Beatles,_ and we wrote _pop_ hits. We weren’t activists in the slightest, we were just a guy group who girls fancied and the like. (Ringo, to my irritation, had agreed with Paul, while George just watched us with a slight blank expression.) 

I wasn’t letting up, though. Paul was right, in a way, but I was right too. Eventually I just drowned him out, you know, “ _shut up, shut up…_ ” And I guess he took the hint because he left.

“Well, that was cheeky of you,” Ringo commented after Paul slammed the studio door behind him. “Now he’s going to go off and drive in that rain.”

I pushed my hair back and sighed. I couldn’t write any more of this song if Paul wasn’t here. _Maybe we should just scrap it,_ I thought, glancing toward the rubbish can. “I don’t really care if he drives in the rain,” I growled. “He’s 24, he can drive.”

So we sat there for a bit longer, just chatting and playing around, you know. The time was reaching 5 am, and we were both exhausted. George left the studio for a minute to see if the rain’s let up.

So me and Ringo were sitting in the dimly lit studio, smoking and staring off into space. It was a very hazy moment for me, and I don’t remember much of it. Well, until George came in, immediately turning to grab his coat.

“Are you leaving?” asked Ringo.

“No.” George came over to us, tugging his arm into his sleeve. “There’s this man outside, in this odd black van. He says he needs to talk to us.”

Of course, I was worried. Man + black van = no good, usually. But we went out anyway, because George said he had a badge on. Police badge, he thought.

So we opened the building’s front door, squinting through the pouring rain to see this huge man. He was tall, his chest puffed out like he’d just won something. His face was long, but not long like Geo’s, more square-like long. His hair was a messy, wet gray, and his eyes were a faded brown. “Are you the Beatles?” his voice was gruff.

“Yes,” I answered. “What do you need?”

“Something terrible has happened to who we _think_ is Mr. McCartney,” he reported.

At first I’d thought, _Oh, cheeky. Yes, something terrible. I wonder what it is._ I’d thought he was joking, I’d thought it was a prank. But then I remembered, this man was part of the police. A policeman wouldn’t joke.

So had something happened to Paul, really?

“I’m part of the MI5,” the man continued. “Maxwell.” He held out his hand, and Ringo took the opportunity of shaking it, getting rain all over his own. “Please come with me.”

That was when I started getting nervous. As we piled into the back of his van, my hands started shaking. I tried to keep it together, because if I broke, there was a good chance George and Ringo might too. Well, maybe just Ringo. George was pretty skilled at keeping it together. Hell, he could be stuck in a building on fire and he’d be calm.

So we drove, very slowly, I remember, through the streets of London. We started getting away from the buildings and more toward the neighborhood-ish streets. It made me increasingly antsy that Maxwell wasn’t saying anything. He kept giving subtle glances back at us through the rearview mirror. There was something in his eyes, like he was amused to see us all so worried.

 _I_ didn’t want to say anything to him. I was to busy dealing with my own thoughts. I didn’t know if Paul was dead. Was he? Hopefully he was just injured. Hopefully he was _fine,_ better. But there was something deep in my gut that knew he wasn’t fine. Probably the opposite, actually.

Maxwell finally stopped the car by the side of the road. I could vaguely see a mangled white Austin Healy, which was－oh _god_ －Paul’s car. Smoke was pouring out of an opening. My throat suddenly got very hot and dry, and I swallowed, trying to get away from such an uncomfortable feeling. My earlier words, _I don’t really care if he drives in the rain,_ circled around my head like a mockingbird.

“Come with me,” Maxwell said, opening the door and pulling out an umbrella. George and I went out one door, Ringo the other. I saw an odd girl in a strikingly blue dress sobbing by the side of the road, looking rumpled and scratched up. I tore my vision away from her. 

There was a draped body-shaped _thing_ underneath a sheet too. I felt something hot rise in my throat. I hoped that wasn’t a human.

“This woman is named Rita.” said Maxwell, stopping uncomfortably close next to Paul’s horribly wrecked car. Rita tried to pull herself together and smoothed down her dress, but tears were still pouring down her face, heavier than the rain itself. “She said that the man under this sheet is Paul McCartney. You’re here to verify that it is.”

“Oh _god_ ,” Ringo groaned, repeating my thoughts. He stumbled into George, who tried to support him as best he could. The youngest Beatle’s face was whiter than the moon, though. 

Maxwell didn’t try to console us and pulled back the sheet quickly and swiftly. I’ll never forget what I saw under there for the rest of my life, however long I may live.

It was a body. More specifically, Paul’s body. I won’t go into much detail on what it looked like. I’ll just say his head was definitely separate from his body, and there was a lot of blood. Too much blood. I couldn’t believe it. At first I had just stood there, giggling feverishly, until I choked and started sobbing. Me and Rita were in the same boat, I guess.

I couldn’t see much except tears. They just kept coming. I was so _tired._ That was all I could think at first. It was like a broken record, as ironic as that may be. _I’m so tired. I’m so_ **_tired. I’m so tired._ **

“Well, is it Paul?” Maxwell asked, at least trying to be nice.

“Yes,” George managed to say. “It’s...It’s Paul.”

Maxwell stared at Paul’s head for a bit longer. Then a horrible, devilish smile spread across his face, and he turned to me. “Kind of looks like a walrus, doesn’t he?” he said. He would even dare to say that.

The most indescribable, vicious rage came over me, and I balled my hands into fists, blinking away the tears. I went head on for Maxwell, socking him as violently as I could. “No!” I said, loud enough for the world to hear. “No! I am the walrus! I am the walrus!”

Maxwell tried to push me away (with much ease, he was a lot bigger than me), and gave me a smash in the gut. I went flying toward the road and fell over, wincing as a stinging sensation overtook my face.

_I’m so tired._

I don’t really remember the rest of that day. After George and Ringo collected me off of the road, every broken piece I had, Maxwell drove us to an MI5 safe house. It was a small little place, with a kitchen and a living room, two bathrooms and a bedroom. I was nearly exhausted by that point. All I wanted to do was sleep. 

So I did.

I slept for almost twelve hours. I didn’t know what Ringo and George did during that time, but I remember George waking me up after my sleep and telling me he wanted to have a go in the bed. So I dragged myself out and had something to eat. If you ever get yourself in an MI5 safe house, do _not_ eat their toast. It tastes like 15 year old toothpaste.

After I’d eaten, I went into the living room. I was going to collect my thoughts. Ringo was watching something on the telly, but he didn’t really look like he was paying much attention to it. He just stared blanky at the screen, his fist on his chin. His sad blue eyes were even sadder, and they were red. I felt bad for hogging the bed right then as I sat on the sofa, a blanket around me for comfort. 

It was right then that I felt another wave of raw grief.

I was _without_ Paul. He was gone. The Beatles had lost a member. I had lost my bandmate, my best friend, my _brother._ I still miss him so much, even to this day. That rawness has never really gone away, and every time I think of Paul it just comes back to me. It’ll never go away, I don’t think.

I didn’t have a lot of time to just wallow in misery. There was another important thing I needed to ponder: the band’s fate. The Fab Four wasn’t _four_ any longer. It was a staggering three. Paul had been a highly contributing member to the band. In playing bass, piano, and everything in between, sure, but mostly it was _songwriting._ He and I had written countless hits already. But I couldn’t write that many on my own.

I remembered then that we had a lot of songs we’d disowned or never finished. Maybe, if I could find it in me, I would be able to finish those songs or make them better. For the Beatles I would.

But how would we go on with only three of us? The fans would be so miserable without Paul. Dare I say, the _world_ would be hit by his death. It would shatter our fanbase. The press would be crazy.

I winced at that thought. Then I heard a sickeningly familiar voice in the other room. Maxwell. He was calling somebody on the phone, it sounded like. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but I didn’t ask Ringo, since he probably wouldn’t know. Ringo wouldn’t think to ask that kind of thing, most likely.

After a while, Maxwell finally came into the living room. He looked as stern as usual as he sat stiffly down in the armchair next to the sofa. George had wandered out of the bedroom by now and was chewing on his toast, watching the telly with Ringo.

Maxwell cleared his throat. “I was talking with my associates.” he announced. “They said that Mr. McCartney’s death will cause thousands of suicides across the world.”

I narrowed my eyes. I hadn’t thought about that. Paul really meant that much to fans that they’d kill themselves just to be with him. 

“So we have to keep his death a secret for as long as possible,” Maxwell continued.

“How are we going to do that?” I retorted finally. Maxwell still wasn’t on my good side. “We can’t just pretend Paul still exists when he’s obviously dead.”

“Well, you’ll have to think about that, then.” Maxwell answered me. He stood up and walked out of the room once more.

Ringo switched off the program after he was sure Maxwell was gone. “So?” he said, easing into using his voice again. “What do we do?”

George shrugged. “John’s right. We can’t keep our public image just pretending Paul’s alive. We can’t do it. Eventually somebody would find out.” he said.

“Yeah, and what about touring?” I added. 

That sparked a few moments of thought.

“Maybe we just...don’t tour anymore.” Ringo said.

That sparked another few moments of thought. At first I was going to say _no, no way,_ because touring was something we had always done. We couldn’t just stop doing it. The fans would get suspicious.

 _But,_ I thought after considering it even more, _our music is getting pretty bad on stage recently. We can’t hear ourselves. The only thing that excites the fans now is just us “being there” and not our music. We’d have more breathing space in the studio._

“Yeah.” I blurted out. It was a tad before I was ready, but I was going to say it anyway. “Maybe we just don’t tour anymore. Ringo’s got the idea.”

George came over to us and sat right next to me on the sofa. “But...that’s mad. Won’t the fans think there’s something going on?” he said. “We’ve always toured.”

I explained my reasoning behind it, and then he started to see it. “Well, I guess you’re right, but...we just never tour again?”

“No,” I shrugged. “C’mon, George, we’ve been touring for six years already. That’s enough for the fans. They still have our records to look forward to, and telly appearances or something.”

“Telly appearances?” Ringo echoed. “Without Paul?”

I sighed. “No, no...that’s not what I meant…” But it was what I meant. I sighed and leaned my head back on the cushions. This was all so confusing.

Finally George piped up with something. “Well, how about this, lads? In the studio, somebody can do Paul’s jobs and nobody will ever know, right?”

“Yeah.” Ringo and I said.

“Well, what about out in public, too?”

“Huh?” Ringo tilted his head in confusion.

“I’m saying,” George stood up and began pacing around. “What if we had a _double Paul_?”

I stared at him. A double Paul? Somebody that looked and talked exactly like him? That would never work. Somebody would find out! There was nobody in the world who looked like Paul. And besides, that idea made me feel so gross. I felt like I was betraying Paul. Like I was replacing him. But George’s idea was brilliant too. It would have to do if we wanted the Beatles to go on.

“Yes.” Ringo was the first to speak. “I think it’s...good.”

“Me too,” I said. It felt hollow, though. I felt like I owed an apology to Paul. Well, not just because of that. For everything, really. For the fight we had before he left, for not making sure he’d be okay in the rain, for just leaving his body, for replacing him with this double. I let my eyes fill with tears and then pushed them back at the last second.

“Well, I’ll go tell Maxwell, then.” George said. He swiftly left the room, and I looked over at Ringo. He was staring at the floor, eyes wide like there was a venomous snake slithering around. I could see the guilt in his expression. I didn’t blame him, actually.

Maxwell came back in behind George. He said in the armchair again, and George next to me on the sofa. “What we came up with,” George explained, “is a double Paul. Like, somebody that looks like him and talks like him.”

Maxwell blinked at him. “Well, yes,” he said, easing back into his chair. “That would probably succeed. At MI5 we have the best plastic surgeons, and we could find somebody who looks enough like Paul to pass.”

“Yay…” Ringo said, his voice almost inaudible. 

Maxwell then stared at me. “But how are you going to come out with new music then?” he said. “Who’s going to write it all?”

I readjusted my position on the couch. “Me and Paul have a backlog.” I announced. “There are around 50 songs in there that we’d never finished or didn’t like. I could fix them up and we could release them.” Again, I felt guilty to say it. But I couldn’t _write_ songs with Paul anymore. I had to do it on my own. And me and George couldn’t write 10 songs per album on our own.

“Good, good,” Maxwell nodded slowly. Then his gaze hardened. “But again. If the secret gets out it could ruin your careers, and take the lives of many people. You must swear to secrecy.”

We all nodded.

“If, somehow,” Maxwell said, standing up, “the secret is told...your fates will be not much different than your little friend’s.”

My blood turned to ice. Was he saying he would kill us if we told anybody? I swallowed, my head starting to spin. I could see the panic on George and Ringo’s faces. Maxwell didn’t seem to be consoling at all. “Do you swear that you will not tell anybody the secret of Mr. McCartney’s death?”

“Yes,” the three of us said, a bit unsure. But there it was. We swore now. If we told, the penalty would be death.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan takes off.

We spent another day in the safe house, just trying to collect our thoughts before going out into the real world. I had phoned Brian about it the next morning. He’d been horribly worried about where we were, and he was devastated about the news of Paul’s death. I had to tell him about our secrecy, and he had agreed, thankfully. I phoned George Martin, too, telling him the same, and he just stayed on the line completely silent before thanking me for telling him and hanging up.

We were supposed to leave early the third day. I was nervous about going out now. It felt like every step I took was another lie I had to tell. I got to see Cyn and Julian a week after I left the safehouse, but it was the hardest thing in the world not to tell her about everything I was dealing with. I had to keep a happy face on for her and my son. If it was going to be so hard to keep this secret from my wife, it was going to be treacherous to keep it from the world.

Brian had eventually told the press about cutting off our touring, and before you knew it it was flooding the papers. I had to see it everywhere: on the news, in magazines, on the radio. Cyn had asked me why we weren’t touring, and I told her the lie we planned: our music didn’t sound good, we were tired, we were stressed. She had understood. It made me feel like I needed to take a shower after I told that lie.

Me, George, and Ringo finally dragged ourselves back to the studio to sort through all the songs me and Paul had written. It was tedious, but we sorted each song into three piles: the rubbish pile, the maybe-it’ll-work pile, and the good pile. After some moving around, I was happy to find that the good pile was considerably large. But I still felt throwing the rest of the songs away. It felt like I was throwing a part of Paul in the trash.

So after George and Ringo left, I fished all the songs out of the trash and hid them in a drawer. I promised Paul, where-ever he might be, that I wouldn’t throw them away.

I remember the funeral like it was yesterday. It was in an abandoned cemetery in Blackpool. I pulled up to the spot in my car, getting out. I felt oddly numb that day. Like everything was asleep. The sky was a pale morning blue. Wispy clouds traveled through like sailboats.

As I weaved through the headstones, I couldn’t help but feel relieved that we were burying Paul here. I mean, sure, I would have liked everybody he loved to be there, but I didn’t see a soul here. Not one person would ever know Paul was here. 

I finally saw a huddle of black coats next to a massive hole in the ground.  _ That must be it,  _ I thought as I padded toward them. George and Ringo were there, and so was Paul’s dad, Jim. His mother Mary had died when he was sixteen. At least he was with her now. 

I squeezed between George and Ringo. The casket was nice. It was smooth brown walnut wood, and there was a pile of bluebells on top of it. I didn’t want Paul to be buried, but at least he would be covered in flowers when he was. 

The priest kept talking, reading Bible verses and whatnot. Jim was staring into the hole his son was about to go into, not even a speck of emotion on his face. George looked pensive as he watched the priest, but his face was blotchy like he’d been crying. Ringo looked the worse. Tears poured down his face, and every so often he’d let out a watery sniff. I put my arm around him, and he leaned his head on my shoulder.

Finally the priest held his hand over Paul’s casket. We lowered it into the ground, and it sunk lower and lower, farther away from us. I sighed, staring at the dark hole. 

There were three shovels next to the hole. I realized with horror that nobody was here to bury him. Did we have to do it? I stared up at the priest. He didn’t look like he was going to help, and I wasn’t going to make Jim.

George picked up a shovel without a word, going over to the hole and beginning to scoop the dirt in. Brown muck sprayed over the bluebells. I helped him, and Ringo did too. It made my stomach churn to think that I was actually burying Paul. I was  _ burying my best friend. _

I tried to keep it together as we finished burying Paul. It was so hard, though. I made a promise to myself that I could let it out in my car, but not here. We patted the mound of dirt on the hole with our shovels. Now Paul was under there, but...we were up here. Without him.

I fufilled my promise in the car.

There was a lookalike contest later in the wintertime. It was supposed to be a joke. We watched it on television, me and George at his place. I wanted to smash the screen in, the way the “judges” laughed at every contestant that came on. It wasn’t a funny matter. But I couldn’t say anything about it. I just had to watch.

Each one was mediocre or just bad. Nobody could really master Paul at all. Some people didn’t even try. They just came on, batting their “eyelashes” and talking with an obnoxious accent that didn’t match Paul’s at all. They were mocking him. They didn’t know he was dead. 

It was towards the end of the competition when the host of the show called into his microphone, “Next up is Louisiana native William ‘Billy’ Campbell Shears!”

Then this...man came out. At first I thought it was a costume that he’d put on. But he looked strikingly like Paul. He had the big eyes, the long lashes, the slightly turned-up nose. The only thing was that his face was a bit longer than Paul’s, but that could be fixed in post. George and I stared at each other in shock. Then George said something I’ll never forget. “Oh my god. He looks exactly like Paul.”

We watched as this “Billy” man answered questions for the judges. Even they were shocked at his resemblance. It was uncanny! We didn’t take our eyes off the screen for what felt like hours. Then Billy went off and the next lad was called in.

I leaned back in the chair that I was sitting in. “Geo,” I said, jaws still parted in shock. “Geo...Geo...do you think…”

“It could be him.” George said, blowing into the cigarette he was smoking. “It could definitely be him. He looks a bunch like Paul.”

I stared at the wall. I never thought we would actually get to the point where we found a Paul double. But I guess we would have had to stop somewhere.

We phone Ringo, who was watching with Maureen, and he was as excited as we were. Billy might be our next Paul. That is, if he  _ wanted  _ to be. There was a high chance he wouldn’t want to throw his entire identity away to be a pop star. But he just looked so much like him.

We got Brian to write a letter to him, asking him to come to the studio one snowy evening. He agreed, obviously. I remember driving down. Thoughts were swamping my head. If Paul was watching us, would he approve of this? Would he be angry at me if he knew? It made me shudder to think that he might be mad.

I pulled into the studio lot and got out of the car. I wanted to wait till Billy came. I leaned against my white-coated car door and lit a cigarette. I had been smoking a lot lately, probably to ease my nerves. It also warmed me up a bit.

After around twenty minutes of waiting, I saw this cab pull into the lot. I couldn’t quite see through the snow, but the figure that got out of the car was distinctly Paul-shaped. My heart skipped a beat. Was it Billy?

I watched as he went into the studio. He looked very disoriented, but a bit thrilled too. He didn’t know  _ why  _ he was meeting the Beatles. There had never been a winner announced for the contest, and there was never a prize. 

I followed him into the studio, being as quiet as possible. He stopped in front of Studio 2, where we played. I watched as he stared at the door, pushing back his hair and taking a deep breath. In person, he looked a bit less like Paul, but it was nothing plastic surgery couldn’t fix. 

He stood there for around five minutes in a row. I decided it might be a good time to...step in.

“Are you gonna go in, son?”

He turned around, his eyes growing wider than the moon. “Oh! I...I...John? Are you...John?” His voice faltered, and he just stood watching me. 

“No, I’m George.” I opened the door for him, letting the cigarette hang out of my mouth. He just stood there, stock-still. His doe-eyed look reminded me of Paul, and I let myself smile. Maybe it would ease his nerves. “Are you coming?”

“Y-yeah.” He went inside, taking off his jacket. I did the same and hung it on the coathanger. “I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you. It’s been a real dream of mine. I-I’ve been told I look like Paul a lot. Is the contest why…”

He saw Ringo, who was sitting behind his drums, looking at them like he’d never hit one before. And then he saw George, absently plucking at his guitar with a welcoming smile. Last he turned back to me, confused. “Well...there’s three of you. Where’s P-Paul, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Just sit down, and I’ll explain.” I said. There was already a circle of chairs in the center of the studio, looking a bit like a cult setup. George was already sitting in one, but Ringo came over, waving at Billy with a nervous grin.

I sat between Ringo and Billy. We were alone. Not even George Martin or Brian was there. It was three on one. Beatles on Billy.

“I’ll give it to you straight and simple.” I said. “Paul is dead.”

Billy leaned back in his chair, blinking a couple times before saying, “Oh.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry. H-how…?”

“Car crash.” George said almost right after. “Or, more forwardly, decapitation.”

“ _ Oh. _ ” Billy said again, his face paling.

I pushed some air out of my cigarette. “Wanna guess what the lookalike contest was for?”

Billy stayed silent. He thought it was rhetorical.

“Wanna guess?” I repeated.

“Oh!” Billy ran his hands down his legs. “Um…well…” It seemed like he didn’t want to offend us. “A memorial kind of thing, maybe?”

“No,” George said in response. “Listen here, son. Paul is dead, but the Beatles aren’t. We have to keep going, or else all the little birds out there will kill themselves. And we can’t keep going with only three of us. We need another Paul. A double Paul.”

“ _ Oh _ ,” Billy said for the fourth time in a row. “Like a stand-in?”

“Yeah.” Ringo finally said. His voice was a lot softer and more kind-sounding than George’s or mine. Billy visibly relaxed at the sound of it. “And you looked enough like Paul that...you could be him.”

Billy didn’t say  _ oh  _ this time. He just stared at the ground. It was all starting to make sense. For a moment it seemed like he ran out of emotion. Then his head snapped up and he stared at us. “Yes!” He looked thrilled now. “Yes, I’ll do it. I’ll be Paul.”

“It’ll mean plastic surgery,” I told him. “And speech therapy, and you have to learn how to play bass and piano, and a bunch of other things.”

“I can play a bit of guitar,” Billy offered. “Is bass the same thing? Pretty much?” 

“I guess,” I said. “It just plays a lower range of notes.”

“I can do that...surgery and speech stuff too,” Billy said. “I’ll be Paul so you can keep the band.”

I was relieved at that. “Are you sure?” Ringo said, just wanting to make sure he was really on board.

“I’m sure!” Billy said. A grin spread across his face. “I want to be Paul McCartney!”


	3. Chapter 3

The first surgery was a few weeks after Billy had agreed to be Paul. In those few weeks, we’d given him a tour of the studio. He was excited by little things like a triangle or the control room stairs. I could tell that he mostly talked to Ringo. It was probably because George and I had scared him during the meeting. It was going to be hard to just...not have Paul around, and I was starting to realize that as the weeks went on. Paul would have talked to me more than anybody, but now not even George had as much as a conversation with me. 

I felt like I was being selfish by thinking this kind of thing. Of course Billy would favor Ringo over the other two of us. I wished I hadn’t been so rough with him at the meeting. I could tell that Billy was starting to realize how I was feeling, so he made an effort to come around every so often and chat with me. But he was a bit clueless. He didn’t know as much about me as Paul did. I couldn’t really connect with him.

I was the one who started teaching him bass, too. He picked it up quick, but he still messed up a bit. I’d put one of our records on, and he would try to follow Paul’s bass line. At first it was a bit rocky, and I got frustrated sometimes, but he always tried to fix it. I think he was a bit scared of me, really.

Brian drove him to the first surgery. He was too scared to do it on his own. Meanwhile, I was fixing up songs at Cyn’s place. It was an awfully hot evening. 

I stared at the song I had been working on. _Good Morning Good Morning,_ it was called. I was pretty tired of it. It was boring. I put it down and put it underneath the other papers, turning to look out the window.

The sun was going down over the hills outside our window. I wandered over to it, staring into the backyard. I wondered how they were getting along with Billy. Hopefully well. _Probably_ well. MI5 had the best plastic surgeons, apparently. 

I couldn’t help but wonder how he’d look. I surely wasn’t expecting it to be perfect. It would be hard to treat him like _Billy_ if he looked exactly like _Paul,_ though. 

I wondered where Paul was, if he “was” anywhere. Heaven? If it even existed. I hoped he wasn’t just wandering around like a ghost or something. If he was, though...would he stay with us? Would he stay with me?

“Daddy?”

I flinched and turned around. Julian－precious little boy－had wandered into the room. His big eyes immediately touched me. “Yeah, what is it, Jules?” I said as he wandered over to the desk I’d been sitting at.

“I can’t find Mommy.” Julian told me. “Where’d she go?”

“Shopping, probably.” I’d answered. “What do you need?”

“I was lonely.” Julian said. He was only three, poor boy.

I sat back down on the desk and let him sit up on my lap. He stared at _Good Morning Good Morning_ and pointed to my name and Paul’s up in the corner. “Daddy?”

“Yeah, Jules?” It unsettled me that Julian had been drawn to Paul’s name in the first place. “That’s my name.”

“What happened to Paul?” He turned to look at me. It was so direct. I was visibly shaken for a minute.

“Wh-what do you mean, Jules?” I swallowed.

“Paul hasn’t come to see me in a long time.” Julian said. “It’s been like _thiiiis_ long.” He stretched his hands apart as far as they could go to convey some sort of time.

“He’s just...busy, son.” I said, ruffling his hair. It was weird, having to lie to my _three-year-old son_ about this whole thing. But Maxwell’s words echoed in my head on repeat. _If, somehow, the secret is told...your fates will be not much different than your little friend’s._

I swallowed. “Yep. Busy.”

“When will he come back?” Julian asked innocently.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Not for very long.”

“What is he doing?”

“Things.” I stood up, putting Julian on the ground next to me. “Well, are you hungry, Jules? Want a little snack?”

“Yeah!” Julian answered, toddling out of the room quite adorably. I watched him go and then sighed, leaning against the chair. I rubbed my head for a minute. Every lie I told felt like another smack to the face. It felt awful to make up a fib to my own son.

The next day I headed over to Billy’s townhouse. Brian had said the surgery was a success, so I hoped Billy would be in good enough shape to talk with me. When I got there, I saw Ringo’s car already there. It wasn’t that much of a surprise. They were getting to be good mates: Billy because Ringo was the nicest out of all the current Beatles, Ringo because Billy was sort of like his replacement of Paul. 

A more dopey, confused replacement.

I rapped crisply on the door, admiring the nice flowers in some pots in front of the house. Ringo answered it, looking relieved to see me. “Hey, John!”

“Hey, Ritchie.” I smiled. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ringo opened the door a bit wider, and I went inside. I’d already been here before, but only a few times. The townhouse was small and quaint, just enough for one lad. It had two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, and a sitting room, and that was about it.

“How’s Billy?” I asked, shrugging off my coat and putting it onto the hook. 

“He’s recovering just fine. I’ve been takin’ care of him today.” Ringo answered. He went back to the tea he had been making. “You can go see him...he’s in the bedroom down the hall and to the left.”

“Thanks,” I said, and Ringo nodded.

I went down the hallway, looking at the photos on the wall. They were charming. Some were with Billy and his family, some by himself. There was one showing him as a child, with the most massive sheepdog I’d ever seen. I couldn’t help but chuckle at that one.

Once I finally got to the door, I didn’t hesitate to go inside. Billy was lying in bed, reading a book, but he put it down when he heard me come in. He looked rough. There were a couple bandages around the chin and lip area, where they’d been working on. “John,” he said, his voice a bit hoarse.

“Hey,” I sat by the side of his bed. “How’s your...face feeling?”

“Better than yesterday.” Billy said. It looked like it hurt a bit to talk, but he was pulling through. “Ringo’s been doing everything for me.”

“Yeah, I saw.” I nodded slowly. “What’s the book you’re reading?”

“Oh. It’s Frakenstein,” Billy laughed. “A bit ironic, hm?”

“Yeah,” I forced a laugh too. “Is it your first time?”

“First time…?”

“Reading.”

“Oh, no.” Billy said, patting the worn book’s gray cover. “It’s an old favorite of mine.” He sighed, leaning back into the large pillow behind him. “This is all still so crazy, John. Tell me if I look any more like him after I take these bandages off, okay?”

“Okay,” I said. I stared out the window. I hope he looked a bit like Paul at least. Maybe that would fill the hole in me that Paul always filled. Just to see him－or what was supposed to be him－ around would pack it up a little bit. 

Ringo came in with two teas on a plate. He gave Billy one and then glanced up at me. “Oh, sorry, John. Do you want me to make one for you?”

“No, it’s fine.” I said, waving my hand. “I’m not that thirsty.” 

“Thanks for coming around, both of you,” Billy said after a couple minutes. “I appreciate it a lot.”

“No problem.” Ringo said with a smile in his direction. “We felt like we had to make it up to you...with you putting all this work into being Paul.”

“It’s not a big deal.” Billy shrugged. “It’ll be...fun.”

“Yeah. Fun.” I said stiffly. _Sure, Billy._ I thought. _It might be fun for you, but it’s rough on us. Well, at least he’s not complaining..._

  
  
  


Over Billy’s recovery, I kept working on different songs. I phoned George and asked him to write a couple things so I wouldn’t have to carry all the weight, and he agreed, thankfully. Billy went to speech therapy, too, and when I started up bass lessons with him again, he sounded more and more like Paul every single time. 

I thought that it would have made it easier missing Paul, to see a double of him walking around and talking to me. But it wasn’t as comforting as I thought it would be. Even though I tried to “think Paul” whenever I talked to Billy, I always knew it wasn’t Paul. It couldn’t be him. 

I would never _believe_ anybody was Paul after I saw him dead on the side of the road that rainy evening.

One night I got a call from George Martin. I’d been at Billy’s house, working on the bass and a bit of vocal. Billy had answered the phone first, but George M. had then asked for me. 

“Yes?” I said, holding the phone up to my ear. 

“John?”

“Mhm.”

“I need to talk to you about something.”

“Well, I didn’t assume you’d called just to breathe into my ear.” I retorted, glancing at Billy, who was trying to keep himself from laughing. “What is it?”

“John, the fans are going to become suspicious if we don’t start making music again soon,” George told me. “We haven’t done anything in _seven_ months.”

It felt like someone had knocked the air out of me for a minute. _He’s right,_ I thought, eyes stretching wide. _The last time we released something was August, which was Revolver. It’s March._

“You’re right,” I finally blurted, flustered. “Oh god...I hadn’t even thought about recording.”

“I know.” George sounded like he was trying to ease my nerves a bit, but it wasn’t helping. “Listen, remember that backlog you have? Had you gotten anything good from that?”

“Yeah, yeah…” I said. I’d found a few good songs on there I thought could make the cut. Even one for Ringo. “And George wrote one too, I think.”

“That’s good,” George said, cheering up a bit. “We can make an album off of that, can’t we? How’s the bass for Billy coming along?”

“Fine, it’s all fine.” I said with a sigh. “We’re actually practicing right now.”

“Oh, great.” George said. “Well...come over to the studio tomorrow. I’ll phone the others too. We can start getting a rough concept then.”

“Okay,” I said, still visibly worried. “Thanks, George.”

“You’re welcome. Don’t worry, John. It will all be okay.” Then he hung up.

“What was that about?” Billy asked as I set the phone down. “What did Mr. Martin want?”

“You can call him George,” I said. I perched up on the foot of Billy’s bed. He sat on the carpet, plucking the strings of the Fender he’d bought for himself (with a little boost from Brian). 

“I know, but then I get him confused with the other George,” Billy told me. “Is it confusing having your producer and your friend’s name be the same?”

“No,” I said, ending that speal. “He wants us to come to the studio tomorrow and discuss a new album idea. We haven’t released anything in a long time.”

Billy was very excited by that. “Oh, really?” His eyes were big and animated now. “Wow. I...I actually get to be part of a Beatles album now!” Then his expression changed to worry. “Will my playing be good enough? Can I sing well enough…?”

“You’ll be fine.” I answered. “Now, you were practicing And I Love Her earlier. Play the bass line for me.”

“Um...alright…” Billy looked down at the bass and situated himself, beginning to pluck it. He got more confident every time I saw him, except his skills still needed plenty of work. He was too distracted this time, and he made a couple more blunders than he usually would. I kept having to tell myself that it wasn’t his fault. I had to tell myself a lot of things during those days. It seems that thinking was the only way I could have ever comforted myself anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Sgt. Pepper time!

As I came into the studio with my arms full of papers that day, I felt a bit excited. We were actually going to play something now. When I came into Studio 2, the other lads were already there, and they gave me impressed stares when I dropped my hundreds of songs on the floor.

“You know you’re going to clean that up, right?” George said after the last paper had fallen gently onto the pile.

“Yes.” I said. “But look at all of this. There’s so much material we can use. I’m sure you’ll find this grand…” 

I watched as Billy picked up one paper. I remembered it specifically from when I’d spilled coffee on it a few nights before. “ _ Getting Better _ .” he read, scanning the page. “Hey, I like this one! It’s pretty good!”

“There’s many more where that came from.” I said. “We have a lot of material.”

“Well, I wrote one.” George said. “If you even need it now.”

“Remember the rule,” Ringo told him from his spot on his bass drum. The rule had always been that George got one song per album, and Ringo, too. 

“The rule is going to change.” George said firmly. “Paul isn’t around to help John anymore. I should write more so we have songs to fit on the albums.”

I was about to pipe up and tell George how much material was in front of him right now, and that we didn’t  _ need  _ him to write more than one song, but George Martin stopped us. “Hey, hey, lads. All of these songs are fine and dandy, I’m sure. But the real thing is, what’s the album going to be like?”

“Huh?” Ringo grunted, confused.

“What’s the theme? What’s it going to look like?” George M. prompted. “This album is going to have to be big. We’ve been away for so long that we need to give the fans what they need: a real banger album.”

That gave us about five minutes of straight thinking. I still didn’t get what George M. was exactly trying to say, but I got the jist of it. He wanted a theme toward the album, or what feelings it gave off.

“It could be colorful,” Ringo finally said. 

“Okay, that’s...good.” George gave him a lopsided smile and scribbled that down on the backside of some blank lined paper. “Colorful. Anybody else?”

Billy stared at all four of us before saying quietly, “There could b-be a bunch of people on the cover. Like...all in colorful outfits and all that. It would really pop.”

“That’s good too!” George added it to the list before any of us could protest. It wasn’t like we were going to, though. That was a good idea, if not a little bland. I gave a reassuring smile to Billy, and he relaxed after that.

George was staring at Billy, but not angrily. Then it was like a lightbulb popped into his head. “Oh,” he said. “Oh...oh…”

“What is it?” Ringo said. 

“What if...what if...we were... _ other people _ ?” said George.

Billy’s eyes grew wide, and he swallowed. “Other people?”

I wanted to laugh. Billy was probably terrified that now he would have to be Paul  _ and  _ some other person. “No, not like that.” George said. “What if...for this album, we put on costumes, right? And then we’re like other people, but we’re really the Beatles?”

My jaw dropped. “Oh, Geo, that’s brilliant.” I said, backing up and sitting in one of the various chairs in the studio. “It’ll be like Billy. He’s going from one person to another.”

“So…” Billy began. “We just put on disguises, in a way.”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “We’re not the Beatles, yet we  _ are _ .”

“Boys, boys,” said George, holding up his hands. “Won’t that give it away, though? You know, the secret? It’s a massive clue.”

And there it was.

Clue.

Clues...clues...clues. The word took over my head. It’s a massive clue, he said. _ I want to hide clues in the album. It’ll be our only way to get the fans to know that Paul’s dead. We need to...we need to reach out to them somehow. Every clue will be crucial, but...we can do it. _

“I want to hide clues in the album.” I said, standing up so fast I didn’t even have time to register it. 

Ringo, George, the other George, and Billy stared at me, all silent. I thought they were mute for a second, because nobody said a word for at least five minutes in a row.

So I did it for them. 

“Come on, lads, it’ll work. Nobody will be smart enough to pick out clues on a Beatles album.” I said, weaving around them. “And if people find out, we can just…”

“We can say that MI5 was forcing us to keep Paul’s death a secret.” Ringo pointed out. “We can say that we were trying to signal without directly telling anybody.”

“Yes, Ritchie!” I grinned.

“Woah, woah, there.” George M. slowed us down. “Let’s not get too excited here. We can’t hide clues in the album. That would be mad. MI5 will find out in a whizz.”

“They won’t find out,” I responded, glaring at him. “We’ll only put a few in.”

George was still unsure, but he didn’t say anything. And Billy didn’t, either. He just looked through the piles of songs I’d gotten. I noticed how he picked the ones he liked and put them in a little pile in front of him.

“What are you doing, Faul?” Ringo said.

My head snapped to stare at him.  _ What did he just say? Faul?  _ It sounded so weird compared to Billy. Nobody seemed bothered by it except me. George even smirked at it. But I scowled. I wasn’t going to call Billy  _ Faul.  _ That wasn’t right.

But eventually, but the end of the day, we sorted out what the album would look like. I eventually got George M. to let us hide a few clues in the album cover, even though he was outrageously against the idea. 

Over the months, we picked out some of the album songs we would use:  _ With a Little Help From my Friends, Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, Getting Better, Fixing a Hole, She’s Leaving Home, Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite!, When I’m Sixty-Four,  _ and  _ Good Morning Good Morning  _ (I thought I might as well get that one out of the way). We also fit the song George had written,  _ Within You Without You,  _ into the mix too.

“That leaves space for four more songs.” George M said as we were leaving the studio for the night. Us two were the only ones there cleaning up the songs I’d scattered across the floor that morning. “Do you think you could write some?”

“Yeah.” I sighed. “I’ll...I’ll do it.” I was getting a bit stressed over the whole writing thing now, but because we weren’t touring I had more time to do it. 

“Maybe you could do an opening song for the fake band we’re supposed to be, and then a reprise,” George suggested, trying to be helpful. “And then one for the end of the album to close it all up.”

“That’s a good idea.” I said. “I’ll figure it out.”

George gave a fatherly smile and put the last few papers in the stack I was holding. “Don’t let it all get to you, Johnny,” he told me. “It’ll be fine. Just keep going.”

I sighed, breaking eye contact. Should I let my guard down? Well, it was too late now. Tears were already filling my eyes, and I sniffed (louder than I intended to). “It’s just hard… you know?” I said, my voice shaking and giving me great embarrassment. “I miss Paul so much.”

George nodded in understanding. “I know it’s hard,” he said softly. “I know it’s hard with Billy too. You’ve never had to train somebody to be a Beatle before.”

It was my turn to nod, and I wiped my face with my sleeve. I drew up my head and stared at the dark studio walls. “I’ll write some things this weekend,” I promised, my voice growing dull.

I knew George M. was watching me leave as I shut the studio door behind me.


	5. Chapter 5

So I wrote  _ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band  _ and the reprise that evening, with some help from George on the phone. That meant there were two songs left to write.

“Well, you could do one tonight and then another tomorrow?” George suggested as I complained to him about what to do.

“I don’t have any ideas.” I said. “And I can’t just take another song from the backlog. They’re too precious.”

“Do you have  _ anything  _ that might give you an idea?”

I stared in the doorway of the room I was working in. The laundry room was right ahead of it, and Cyn was doing a load. I noticed some of her dresses hanging on the doorknob, and one specifically caught my eye. It was blue, but I recognized the shade. It was oddly familiar to me.

Then I remembered. Rita had been wearing that dress, the girl by the side of the road. It had been dotted with rain, but I knew it was the same color. 

Something in me stirred. I didn’t know quite what it was, but my hand twitched. I pulled out a new, clean piece of paper, and a pen. I wanted to write something about Rita. Maybe not mention her inherently.

“John?”

Oh. I’d forgotten Geo was on the phone. “Sorry.” I said. “I just got an idea for the song.”

“Well, that was quick. What is it?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I...I have to go. See ya.”

“Wait, John－” 

I hung up before he could continue. It made me feel a bit guilty, but I needed to focus on this song. 

For the rest of the night I brainstormed for it. Eventually I got what folks today would call  _ Lovely Rita.  _ And god, did it feel good. It was around midnight when I finished, but I didn’t regret staying up at all. I shoved the song in the drawer and climbed into bed beside Cyn, grateful for the fact that I had a bed. 

I thought Cyn was asleep, so it scared the hell out of me when she turned around, her blue eyes open and staring at me. “Ah!” I yelped, moving a bit away from her.

“Relax,” she said softly. “I’m not going to kill you.”

“Yeah, I’m aware,” I sighed, settling back in. “Why are you still awake? It’s 12:00.” 

Cyn smiled. That beautiful smile of hers. “I’m not tired.” she told me, immediately contradicting that statement with a yawn. “And besides, I wanted to ask you about something.”

“What?” I felt unease prickle into me.

“You seem so distant and sad lately,” she said, putting her hand on mine. “Is something going on with you? With the band?”

“No, no,” I assured her, trying to keep myself from looking nervous. “Nothing’s going on.” I cleared my throat, immediately regretting it. “What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know,” Cyn answered. “It’s just...you sit writing all the time, and you’re never with Paul anymore. Where is Paul, anyway?”

_ Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god.  _ My mind was racing. “He’s just busy,” I told her, trying with everything I had to keep my voice from shaking.

“Busy? I haven’t seen him since November.” Cyn said.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “I know…”

Cyn stared at me for a bit longer. Did she know that something had happened to Paul? Even now, thirteen years later, I still don’t know if she knew I was hiding something that night. And I never will.

“Busy with what?” she finally asked.

_ Shit.  _

“Just...stuff.” I assured her. “He and Jane are having issues.”

Cyn squinted at me, very suspicious. “You and I have issues all the time and you always go and see Paul,” she said.

“Wow, jeez, Cyn,” I grinned. “A bit of cold hard reality.”

“Don’t change the subject, Lennon,” she snapped at me, but I knew it was in a more playful manner than irritated one. “I want to know what’s up with you, and why you’re avoiding me, and why you’re so nervous.”

“It’s nothing, Cyn,” I said, stifling a groan and turning my back to her. “You don’t need to know. Besides, there’s nothing wrong.” 

“I’m your wife!” she said, almost loud enough to wake Julian. She tugged on my shoulder to turn me around. “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to shred all your writing tomorrow.”

She didn’t know the gravity of that statement. I didn’t want her to shred the backlog...even though I knew she might. Probably not, but might. And if she did, we wouldn’t have any material to work with. 

I swallowed. “You wouldn’t do that.” 

She looked genuinely serious. “I would, though.”

I scowled as she gave me a peck and went back to her side of the bed. She didn’t say anything else before she fell asleep, but I was thoroughly traumatized. After I was sure she was asleep, I slowly climbed out of bed and padded down the hallway to the bathroom, flicking on the lightswitch and staring into the mirror.

It was the first time I’d done that in a while.

I mean, yeah, sure, I’d looked in a mirror recently, but I mean  _ really  _ looked. I was a pretty big mess. I was very, very rough. And I knew Paul, who was always as clean as a whistle, would greatly disapprove. He’d tell me: “Wow, Johnny, you look like you just climbed out of the sewers.” He’d tell me: “Go clean yourself up.” 

But now he wasn’t here to say that.

You know that...stinging feeling, I guess you could call it...that appears on the bridge of your nose before you start to cry? Yeah, right about then was when it came. I’d never noticed it before, but crying is a process that comes with a lot of stinging. Your nose, your eyes, your face in general. 

And with all this awful stinging, I was too distracted to notice Cyn in the doorway of the bathroom. When I finally noticed her, I could tell by her face that she knew exactly what I was crying about. 

She didn’t hesitate to come and hug me. It felt good to be able to cry to somebody. She hugged me tight and whispered, “He’s gone, isn’t he?”

I nodded slowly, too choked up to say anything.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

I didn’t answer her and just sniffed. I couldn’t really use my voice then. After a couple more minutes, I finally found it. “I don’t want you to die…” I said shakily.

“What?” Cyn said, her voice laced with confusion and shock. Then it all tumbled out like a waterfall: the crash, Rita, Maxwell, the possible suicides, the safe house, the backlog...Billy. And she understood. She was scared, but she understood. She was relieved I told her, and I was too. It felt good, finally, to be safe. 

Well, as safe as I could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woah this fic is getting kinda big...80 hits is a lot...


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bang bang maxwell's silver hammer came down upon john's head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a lot of historical inconsistencies in this chapter (and this fic in general lol) but I had to keep it like that to get the story to make sense, so sorry. 🍋

We started recording soon. We did Ringo’s song first, then George’s, then all of mine. (Well, all of them except for the last one, which was a song I hadn’t even written. It was  _ A Day in the Life,  _ but I wasn’t there yet).

Billy was there for almost all of the recording, watching and occassionally helping with something simple like the triangle or a little pitter-patter on the drums if Ringo was off for a coffee break. He was a good musician, I was starting to realize, but it would take a while for him to get on our level.

That only left Billy’s parts to record. The first day were all of his bass lines, which we had to put in tediously because he wasn’t ready to play with all of us yet. Thankfully, he’d practiced a lot at his house, so his quite simple lines went pretty well.

His singing was spot-on, too. When we were recording  _ Fixing a Hole,  _ I was shocked by how much he sounded like Paul. He was proud when we congratulated him afterward, and got more confident with the songs afterward.

Everybody was unsure of  _ Lovely Rita _ . Not anything specific, but the entire song. And by everybody, I mean  _ everybody.  _ George, Ringo, the other George, Brian, even Billy. They didn’t say anything about it, but I could tell very well that they all thought it wasn’t going to pass by with the MI5. I proceeded with it anyway.

“Well, boys,” George M. said one afternoon in the studio, “we’ve done a bunch of recording over the months, and...we still have one song left to go.”

Everybody groaned, including me. I’d forgotten about the last song, and apparently everybody else had too. I watched as George, Ringo, and Billy turned to look at me. “What?” I said.

“We were wondering if you had anything.” Billy told me.

I sighed. “Do you mean in the backlog?”

“Yeah…” Billy answered.

I stood up with a frown. “I guess I’ll look,” I said. Maybe I could fish something out of the drawer full of “bad” songs I’d saved from the trash. I hurried up the stairs to the control room and opened the drawer while the others talked. I sifted through the piles. All of it was crap, just as I’d thought, and I even pondered throwing it away again.

No. I had to keep it for Paul.

Then I noticed something poking out from the stack. I pulled it out.  _ A Day in the Life  _ was scribbled on the top. Confused, I skimmed it. This was pretty good. Who would throw this out?

Immediately millions of ideas flooded my head. In fact, this song was the most brilliant thing I’d ever laid my eyes on. I snatched it up and hid the other songs in the drawer, hurrying back down the stairs. “Who threw this out?” I demanded, holding it up.

“Which song is it?” asked George.

“ _ A Day in the Life _ .” I answered, sitting down on one of our Leslie speakers. 

“Oh, me,” George shrugged. “Why?”

I glared at him. “Did you even read it?”

George shook his head. “Not really. It sounded like gibberish to me,” he said. “I didn’t think you would like it, anyway.”

“I do like it,” I said, sweeping over to George M. “Look at this!” Our producer gently took it from me, skimmed it over, and nodded, seeming impressed.

“That’s not bad. Look, there’s even a part for Pau－sorry, I meant Billy…” he trailed off. “It would take a while to record.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “I’m going to do whatever it takes to get this song out!” 

“Are you sure, John?”

“Yes, of course.” I said. “That song is going to be the big banger you’re talking about, George! And if it takes fifty years to record, I don’t care. That’s going to get the fans so excited that they’ll forget all about our absence.”

The four of them were silent for a moment, and then George M. nodded. “Alright. Let’s do it, then.”

  
  


It took a whopping 34 hours to record  _ A Day in the Life.  _ Everything had to be perfect for my standards, and I would have anything be redone if I didn’t like it, no matter how tedious it was. It was a joint effort; all four Beatles contributed the best they could. The orchestra we hired thought it was all a load of crap, and they were very confused as some points, but they went on anyway to get their pay. And finally,  _ finally,  _ when we were done, I couldn’t have been happier with the final product.

People have mixed thoughts about that song now. A lot of people are amazed by it, or get a bit sad when they hear it. I’ve heard a lot of people say they were terrified during the orchestra bits and especially the ending we snuck in there. But I’ll always hold a bit of a grudge to George for throwing it out. If I’d never fished those papers out from the trash, then  _ A Day in the Life  _ in its finished form would have never existed.

All of us were absolutely exhausted by the end of Sgt. Pepper’s. It was a very tiring album to create, and I could tell Billy was overwhelmed by all of it. But he was proud of himself too. I think everybody was. Becoming a Beatle was difficult, and his first time doing pretty much anything musical was  _ Sgt. Pepper’s.  _ That album was insane!

All the recording was done, and it was time for the cover. Ah, yes, that famous cover. It took days to prepare for it. I didn’t know what people would think when they saw it. We weren’t the clean-shaven Liverpudlian boys they’d seen in Revolver. We’d all grown mustaches and looked a lot older. 

Every single cardboard cutout had to be situated perfectly, every flower in the “grass”. I hid many clues in that cover, but I’m not here to explain them all. Most people know them anyway. The photoshoot, actually, didn’t take too long, thank heavens. 

We realeased the album on May 26th, I think. At first the reactions were slow. All of the sudden, though, Sgt. Pepper’s was getting a bunch of praise, especially  _ A Day in the Life.  _ We were hearing of the album being sold out around the world. I couldn’t tell you how happy and relieved I was. Nobody said hardly anything about how long we’d been away, thankfully. It was a joy to me, and I felt really happy for the first time in a while.

One morning I was getting ready to go back into the studio. I was at my flat this time, because I wanted to stay in town near Abbey Road. I slipped on the famous round glasses I wear. I was getting comfortable with wearing them now. They helped me see a lot better, and I wasn’t blind as a bat anymore.

Just then I heard a pounding on the door. It was vicious, and somebody yelled for me on the other side. Of course, I was terrified. The pounding stopped as I stood frozen near the door. 

Then a chilling feeling went through me. A familiar voice came from the other side of the door. “John? Are you in there?”

It was Maxwell.

I swallowed. I knew why he was here. He’d obviously found all the clues. He’d been looking for them. I shivered, but stayed silent. Maybe if they thought I wasn’t here they would leave. I didn’t dare move.

“John!” Maxwell’s voice was gruff with rage.

I held my breath and closed my eyes, not moving from where I stood. He was pounding the door so hard it was rattling. It sounded like there were multiple people there, which was even more petrifying. 

“If you don’t open the door, we’ll force our way in,” growled Maxwell between the pounding. “We’re not afraid. They can’t arrest us.”

I sighed as quietly as I could and padded over to the door. Peering through the peephole, I saw Maxwell. Two massive bear-sized men were behind him. I didn’t have a choice. I tried to stop from shaking as I unlocked it and very slowly, very gently opened the door. 

Instantly, one of the huge lads came forward and gifted me ever so kindly with a swift sock in the face. I fell back onto the coffee table, nearly tripping over it as I tried to stumble away from Maxwell and his goons. The other guy grabbed me, taking advantage of my shock, and got me in a headlock, his thick arm pretty much blocking my airway.

“Listen here.” Maxwell’s eyes were fiery with anger as he slammed his fists on the table. “What did I say at the safe house? I said that you must  _ swear  _ to secrecy. Don’t think you can get cheeky and try to hide your little clues in your album covers!”

I was going to respond, but I could hardly breathe. I tried to push my head out of the grip of the goon, but he had more strength than a whale shark. Was I going to die right there? Was all of my effort on the album for nothing?

Finally Maxwell stood up, the anger going out of his face. Apparently that meant something, because the lad dropped me quickly.

With a deep breath I caught my fall. My glasses fell of my face and cracked on the floor, but I didn’t care. I had never been so grateful for air than in that moment. I heard Maxwell and the other two leave, slamming the door behind them. Groaning, I reached up to tenderly touch my face. It was sore, and I resolved not to touch it until it got better.

I managed to stand up and wander over to the bathroom. My mind was racing. What should I do now? Should we call back the album? No, I couldn’t do that. It was already too popular.

All I could do was just...stare at myself. This was my fault. I was the one that had decided to put clues on the album, and look what they did to me! What would they do to George? Ringo?  _ Billy _ ? He was just recovering from his second surgery. He couldn’t take that much pain.

I felt numb now as I shakily drank a glass of water. I didn’t know what else to do but go in the studio. What if Maxwell and his goons were there? Would they give me another round? Would they wreck our instruments or equipment? Just a punch and a headlock wouldn’t be enough punishment for almost causing thousands of suicides, surely. Well, for them. 

I went to the studio anyway. If they were there, trying to hurt the others, I could stand up for them. It was my fault there were clues on the album anyway. That fueled me, and I drove quickly to Abbey Road.


	7. Chapter 7

When I got there, George was the only one in. He stared me, wide-eyed, when I came in. “John, what happened to you?” he asked, standing up from the spot where he’d been sitting. “You look…”

“Yeah, I know,” I said with an angry sigh. I did look pretty rough. My shirt was rumpled, my glasses broken, my face bruised. “Maxwell and these two lads came over and nearly choked me over the album.”

“What?” George was shocked. “Really?”

“Yeah,” I answered. I was more irritated than worried now. “They just came into the flat and...and…”

“Hold on, hold on,” George said, trying to slow me down. He inspected my face. “It looks like you’ve got a bruise forming near your cheekbone.”

“Whatever,” I said. My anger had built up and I was fuming now. I lit a cigarette, angrily puffing on it until Billy came in. 

He was looking more like Paul every day. It was easier having him around because of that, and I kind of looked past his dopeyness because of how splendid of a musician he was getting. But I wasn’t thinking about that right then. I was just very cross.

“Woah, what happened to your face, John?” asked Billy.

George must have detected I wasn’t going to answer, so he did for me. “Maxwell came over and got these guys to rough him up.” he said. Billy still looked confused, so George elaborated. “Because of the album cover…?”

“ _ Oh _ ,” he said, leaning his arm against a stray music stand close to me. “Well, I’m sorry that had to happen. Maybe he won’t do that next time.”

I sighed as smoke clouded up in the air. Billy had never really cared about the clues on the albums or really anything to do with the secret that he wasn’t Paul in general. I mean, sure, he kept the secret well, but he never really contributed to anything. That was all...well, mostly me.

I glanced at him and George. “Did they come to your places?”

“No,” George shook his head, going to get his guitar. He plugged it into a speaker and began plucking it. “There was nothing. Not even a letter.”

“Oh, yeah.” Billy piped up. “Speaking of letters, Brian gave me one last night. He said it was from Jane Asher?”

“Jane?” I repeated. That was Paul’s girlfriend. She didn’t even know he was  _ dead _ , I realized. I watched as Billy pulled the envelope out of his pocket and handed it to George.

“Shit,” George said as he skimmed it. “She’s asking where he’s been. Jane’s been calling him for ages. Why did Brian give this to you?”

“Because...I’m Paul…?” Billy said uneasily.

“She says she wants to go out with him too.” George cleared his throat. “Billy can’t go out with Jane. That would be dangerous.”

“Well, the only option is breaking up,” I pointed out.

Billy visibly deflated at the prospect of not having a free girlfriend, but it wasn’t for long. “So...do we write back to her, then?” he said. “Won’t she think my handwriting is different?”

“We could do it by typewriter,” I suggested. 

So we went up to the control room and pulled out George M.’s old typewriter, putting some paper in so we could get started. George sat in a swivel chair next to Billy while I perched on the desk.

“What...what do I say?” Billy asked nobody in particular. 

“We have to get it to sound like Paul’s writing it,” George said. “So...start with... _ Dear Jane. _ ”

“Okay.” Some loud typing on Billy’s end.

“And then…” George crossed his legs. “Uh... _ I know you have been wanting to see me for a while now...dear. _ ”

I grimaced but didn’t protest as Billy typed it out. “ _ And as it grieves me to say, I have been feeling hardly any connection between us lately. _ ” I added. “ _ That is why I am writing you to say that I feel we must...break the bond we share. _ ”

“Good, good,” George said over Billy’s loud typing. “What else?”

“How about:  _ I hope you can still have a pleasant time without me. Know that I will always love you _ ?” Billy said. 

“Yeah,” I nodded.

Billy finished up the line. “Is that it?”

I looked at George, and he shrugged. “Yeah, that’s good.”

Billy slowly wrote  _ Love, Paul  _ at the end and took it out of the typewriter. He read it back to us. “Are you sure that’s enough? Won’t it seem a bit curt?”

“No, it’ll be fine.” I jumped off the table and sealed it in an envelope, scrawling Jane’s address on the front. “Paul was always annoyingly brief.” I smiled to myself, thinking about the fond memories I had before getting ready to put it in our mailbox.

When I got back into the studio, Billy and George were doing a nice little duet. Billy was following a bit behind in quality of notes, but George kept a slow pace for him. I went up to the control room to get the cigarette I’d left.

When I came back down, George was leaving, putting his guitar back in the case. “Where are you going?” I asked him as he snapped the case shut.

“I have a lunch date with Pattie,” he told me. “I’ll probably be back. See ya.” He waved to me, opened the door, and left.

I was alone with Billy.

I turned to him. “Well, it’s just us.” I said, trying to clear the awkwardness. “How did the last surgery go? Sorry I didn’t visit you last time.”

“It was fine,” Billy sighed. “Just a bit more pain afterward.”

“Oh,” I said, pulling out my box of cigarettes. “Want one?”

“Yeah, sure,” Billy took one from the box and lit it with my lighter. “Sometimes these help deal with all the stress.”

“These?” 

“You know.” Billy gave me a laughing smile.

“Yeah, I do,” I leaned back, relaxing. I watched Billy as he stared off into space. As my sight got hazy, I kept wondering if that man I was starting at was Paul or Billy. I blinked, not really caring to ask.

Billy turned to look at me. “Do you think...I’m doing well?”

“What?” I said, being pulled back into reality.

“Do you think I’m doing well...being Paul?”

I kept from giving out an exasperated sigh. I was hoping with all my might that Billy had been Paul, but I could tell very well that he wasn’t. “You’re doing fab,” I said. “Absolutely great.”

Billy didn’t seem satisfied by that answer. “But...really? I just feel like all three of you are so much more ahead of me in terms of...what...quality?”

“Quality of what?” I said.

Billy stood up and frowned. “Quality of...Beatle-ness?”

I wanted to laugh. “What the hell is Beatle-ness?”

Billy stared at me. “I feel like I’m not good enough.” he said. 

“We wouldn’t have picked ya if you weren’t good enough.”

“Then why do I have to do all these...surgeries and speech stuff…?” Billy sighed. “Why do I have to break up with Paul’s girlfriend? Why do I have to have bass lessons and vocal coaching?”

I shifted on the speaker I was sitting on, pondering his words. “Well, nobody can inherently be exactly like another person.” I told him. “You didn’t expect us to pick somebody who’s an exact copy of Paul, did you?”

Billy shook his head. “No. An exact copy doesn’t exist.”

“There you go,” I said. “Now you understand. We picked you because we thought you were the most like him out of all those lads at that contest.”

Billy looked a bit more comforted. “But...what if they figure it out? What if they figure out Paul is dead?”

“They’re not going to.” I said confidently. 

Billy blinked. “You don’t think they  _ ever  _ will?”

“No,” I shrugged. “We’ve made the clues so obscure that nobody will ever know.” 

“Then why did you even put them?”

I stared at Billy. Even though I wanted to, I didn’t answer him. It wasn’t because it was some sort of weird secret, or I was angry at him or anything. Looking back on it now, the reasons I put clues in mostly came down to...well, comforting myself. I was trying to get everything out. And since I couldn’t tell other people, I tried to help myself deal with it by putting clues in where nobody could find them. But if somebody did, they would know. It doesn’t really make much sense, I know, but back then it didn’t make a lot of sense to me either.

And that, my friend, is the first time Billy ever (unknowingly) got so heavy.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! 🍋

Magical Mystery Tour was the album that came next. The backlog was considerably handled through, but there was still a bit of material in there. Enough for a few more albums, at least. I was sitting on the floor one night, sifting through things, when Cyn came in.

“What are you doing?” she asked as she sat next to me. 

“Going through songs.” I answered.

“Is there anything you like?”

I shrugged. “Eh. Kind of.” I gestured toward a pile of songs that I thought might be suitable for the album. “Those, I guess.”

“Ooh, can I see?” Cyn reached over to grab them, and I didn’t protest. She scanned each one slowly, nodding and laughing at some lines. I liked watching her do that. It made me feel good about my writing for once. “Oh, I like this one.”

“Which?” I said absentmindedly.

“ _Strawberry Fields Forever_.” she said. “Did you and Paul write this one together?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. I wrote most of it, though.”

“Oh.” Cyn nodded slowly. She leaned against my shoulder. “When is Billy going to come over and meet us?” 

I shrugged again. “I don’t know. I haven’t asked him. Why?” 

“I don’t know. By the way you describe him, he seems like a nice person.” Cyn answered. “Why not this Saturday? We could make a nice dinner…”

“What about Jules?” I said, putting the songs down. “Won’t he know that Billy _isn’t_ Paul? We can’t tell him Paul’s dead. That could lead to so many things.”

“Like what?” Cyn asked, staring at the wall.

“Uh, he would be _devastated_ ,” I said. “He could tell some of his preschool friends, ‘Oh, my daddy’s friend Paul bloody _McCartney_ is dead!’ And then those kids will tell their parents and everything will get out. He’s four years old, he doesn’t understand these things!”

Cyn looked a bit hurt, and I never liked to see her like that. I calmed down considerably. “It’s not only that,” I said quietly, “it’s that I don’t want the MI5 to hurt you both.”

Cyn smiled and looked down at the floor. “I know,” she said, and after a couple minutes of thought, “but Billy’s been playing Paul for months now. He has to get practice somehow.”

I stared at her, blinking slowly. “...Do you _really_ want to do this?” I asked. “What if everything goes wrong? What if Billy breaks?”

“I have confidence in him,” Cyn stood up, wiping her hands. “Now, I’m going to make dinner. Love you.” She left the room, and I didn’t move from my spot on the floor. I held my head in my hands. I genuinely hoped Billy would be able to pull this off. If he didn’t, it would mean disaster for everybody.

Billy was scheduled to come over that Saturday at 5:30. When we had told Julian, he’d been ecstatic, but it had been a bit of a bittersweet moment for us, since we knew Paul wouldn’t be actually coming and it was an actor of sorts. But as the week trucked on, I felt like Billy could do this. And Cyn was right, he did need more practice in being Paul just in every day life.

That Saturday evening Julian came bolting into our bedroom before Billy came over. “Mommy,” he said, immediately going over to Cyn like he always did. I didn’t blame him; I’d been a pretty _eh_ father for most of his life. “Do you think Paul will like my picture?”

He held out a piece of white paper, and on it was a childlike drawing of a tall, black-haired lad and a shorter boy, presumably Julian, in a field of spindly yellow-and green sunflowers. “The flowers are from the song…” Julian said, his face practically glowing with pride. “Flowers of yellow and green, remember, Daddy?”

“Yeah, I do,” I laughed. “Towering over your head, right?”

“Yeah!” Julian said. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

“Oh, he’ll adore that, sweetheart.” Cyn said, ruffling Julian’s hair. “He loves all your other drawings! He hung them all in his office at home, remember?”

I nodded. Suddenly, it was like a wrecking ball smacked me in the gut. We had cleaned out Paul’s apartment a few weeks after he’d died, telling the press he was just moving. Somebody must have thrown away all of Julian’s drawings. All those pictures that he loved, just shredded in the trash. It took a moment to fight back the tears for that one, but thankfully Cynthia had noticed and was leading Julian back to his room to get ready.

These were the kind of things I hadn’t even thought about. There were so many little aspects of Paul’s life that I remembered every so often. I commend Billy for managing to keep all of that in his head all these years. But just to make sure Billy would say the right thing, I sped over to the phone to call him. It rang monotonely in my ear before I heard a “Hello?” and then silence as Billy waited for me to answer. 

“Are you with somebody?” I whispered into the receiver.

“No,” Billy answered.

“Oh...okay, great.” I said. “Listen, I forgot to tell you before you come over. Julian made a drawing for you, and...well...Paul really loved Julian’s drawings. Like, _really_ loved them. So, if you could just ham it up when he gives it to you…”

“Oh, yeah, sure!” Billy sounded cheerful on the other end, which relieved me. “I love art anyway, so it wouldn’t be hard to act excited.”

“Thanks, Billy,” I said with a sigh. “You’re real grand.”

“No problem! I’m heading over now.” 

“Okay, goodbye.”

“Bye!”

I put the phone down with a sigh. That might have been a close one. It felt so weird, though, to have to phone somebody to tell them how to act. I wished Paul was alive more than I ever had in that moment. I wanted him back. I wished I had never fought with him. I _wish_ he had never gone out in the rain. I wish so many things, but wishing for something never got anything back.

“Okay, Julian’s putting on his shoes, the table’s set, I’ve got the wine out…” Cynthia was saying as she came back in the room. “Did you tell the maid to skip tonight for cleaning?”

“Mhm.” I mumbled. My mood had been somewhat soured by the thoughts that had been running through my head. 

Cyn didn’t notice it, though, and smiled at me. “Thanks. Okay, I’m going to go down. When did he say he’d be here?”

“He was on his way when I called.”

“Fabulous. Okay...I guess I’ll go down now. Do you want to come?” she asked. 

I was about to say _no,_ but I wasn’t going to dampen my excitement even further by staying up there and wallowing in my own sadness. “Yes.” I said, standing up and brushing myself off. Cynthia looked relieved but surprised, as if she hadn’t expected me to say yes. Our relationship was a bit rocky then, mostly due to my closed-off-ness. I’ll never forgive myself for the way I treated her sometimes.

We went downstairs together, and before I knew it Billy was here. He rang the doorbell and I shot up like a rocket. I was truly worried, actually. I didn’t know how this was going to go. 

Cyn followed me to the door, and I opened it. Billy was standing there with a package in his arms, and a big grin on his face. He was looking more like Paul every day, and Cyn was obviously wowed by it. “Hello!” she said. “How are you?”

“I’m grand, how about you?” Billy answered.

“Great!” Cyn opened the door wider so he could come inside. Billy proceeded to present her with the package, and she took it gently from him.

“What’s this?” Cyn asked as she peeked inside. “Oh, you didn’t have to get us anything, Billy.”

“I wanted to, since you’re having me over,” Billy said.

“What is it?” I said, leaning forward to see inside. There was a bottle of wine inside, and a box of cookies for Julian as well. “Oh, that’s quite nice, Billy.”

The lad shrugged. “It’s the least I could do.”

“Well, we have some appetizers before dinner’s ready,” Cynthia announced. “Julian, Come down! Paul’s here!”

“Paul!” Julian’s voice came from up the stairs, and he bolted down, his face evident of true thrill. “Hi!” He launched himself into Billy.

“Hey there,” Billy smiled, ruffling Julian’s hair. “How are you, pal?”

“I’m good!” Julian answered. He held up the drawing he had made, in all its childlike innocence. “Look, I made this for you.”

“Oh, wow!” Billy said, taking the drawing and looking it over. “This is just as marvelous as all the others! How do you do it, Jules?”

I watched, and couldn’t help but smile when Julian did. Billy was playing the part of Paul almost identically. _If only Macca were here to see this,_ I thought, trying to keep my composure.

We went into the other room for appetizers, and our conversation went as smooth as butter. I was truly impressed by how well Billy was making it. Julian didn’t even know the difference, and he was talking to Billy as if he was Paul in the flesh and blood.

“Well, dinner’s ready.” Cyn said after the timer from the oven went off. “I’ll go get it and everybody can sit down.”

“Roger that.” I stood up and stretched. Julian raced behind Cyn, asking what we were having for dessert. “So, Jules thinks you’re really Paul,” I said.

“Yeah,” Billy looked proud of himself. “He’s a real nice chap. I quite like talking to him.”

“He has a lot of interesting things to say,” I commented as we migrated to the dining room together.

Billy smirked. “I know where he got it from.”

We sat down as Cyn brought the casserole in and set it on the table. Julian crawled up into one of the massive chairs, looking like a mouse compared to a cat’s paw. He grabbed his fork and knife and held it up. “Food!” he squealed.

“Alright, Julian, here’s your piece.” Cynthia scooped a small square onto our son’s plate, and he looked like it was taking all his will not to devour it on the spot. “This is our favorite dinner, Paul. You’ll love it.”

“Oh, that’s quite gracious.” Billy said as he got his helping. 

Cyn sat down after lighting a candle. “So, B- _Paul,_ how have you been recently?” she asked as we began eating. I stared at her. _Close one,_ I thought.

“I’m doing fine.” Billy answered. “I’m thinking of adopting a puppy sometime. I’ve been feeling a bit lonely around the house.”

“Puppies,” Julian hummed as he shovled some green beans into his mouth, dropping some down on his plate. “I like puppies.”

“What kind are you thinking of getting?” I asked.

“Well, I grew up Old English Sheepdogs,” Billy told us. “One of my friend’s brothers is selling them up in High Wycombe. They’re hardly a week old now.”

“Oh, that’s why you have that photo of you and that dog in your house.” I nodded. “I never knew that.”

“You never asked,” Billy said back.

“Oh, that’s wonderful.” Cyn said. “A girl or boy?”

“I don’t know. We’ll see when the time comes.”

“Can I go with you?” Julian asked. “Pleeeease? I wanna see a puppy!”

“Maybe you can, Jules.” Billy winked. 

I wanted to cough my food up. _Oh god,_ I thought, grabbing my napkin and squeezing it as hard as possible. _If Billy and Jules go together on this little trip, there’s a good chance the secret will slip on accident._ “I’ll go too,” I offered urgently.

“Great!” Billy grinned. “Maybe if you two go, the pup can get used to you as well as me.”

“It’ll get a lot of things out of the way,” I sniffed.

The rest of the dinner was smoothly as well, with hardly any close calls. I was satisfied that Cyn had got relatively used to Billy and Julian had no clue that Paul was dead. We settled in the living room to watch some television before Billy left for the night. 

Julian slithered up into Billy’s lap and sat there comfortingly, his big eyes watching the screen. There was an advertisement for scar removal on. Then he turned back to Billy. “Do you have any scars?”

Billy froze. “Not that I remember.” he said quickly.

“Really?” Julian said. “But there’s one right there.”

He pointed to Billy’s ear, which had been slightly lifted along with other things in his last surgery. “What’s it from?”

Billy looked like he was scrambling for a response. I was, too. I was wracking my brain like a madman. I looked over to see Cyn trying for an answer too.

“And there’s one on your lip too.” Julian said before we could reply. “Why are there so many on your face? I...I didn’t see them last time we saw you.”

 _Shit, shit, shit…_ I thought. “Um, Jules…” I said, hoping something would come to me in the nick of time. “I remember when he got those. He…”

_I can’t think of anything._

Billy’s eyes grew wide. I could practically hear the telepathic message he was trying to send. _Think of something!_

“He smacked his face on the pavement last month!” Cyn blurted. Relief took over my entire body, and I couldn’t move for a second. “And...that’s how he got those scars, Jules.”

_Thank you, Cyn!_

“Yeah, now I remember!” Billy said. “I must have hit my head funny when I toppled over, Jules.”

Julian turned to the television. “Why don’t you get it re-removed by those people, then?” he asked. “It’s only a surgery!”

We all laughed in relief. Yeah, only a surgery.

After Billy had left and Julian had gone to bed, Cyn and I went down to clean up. “Oh, god, thanks for thinking up that answer,” I said as we took up the dishes from the table. “That could have been disastrous.”

“Mhm.” Cyn hummed as she put the dishes in the sink. “Well, even though it was stupid, I had to think of something. Or else Jules would find more of those scars.”

I chuckled as I scrubbed a plate. “I feel bad for him.”

“Why?”

“Well, he doesn’t know Paul’s dead.”

“Isn’t that good, though?”

“Yeah, but he’s bound to find out sometime.”

Cyn tilted her head at me. “He is?”

“We’re not going to tell him?”

“He’s _four,_ John.”

“I mean _later._ ” I said, rolling my eyes. “When he’s older.”

“What age, John?” Cyn retorted. “Either way he’s just going to be crushed. He’s going to hate Billy...and us, probably.”

I considered that for a second. “Yeah.”

“So?”

“So what?”

A loud silence fell on us. I sighed as I put the dish back in the drawer. Did I even want to tell him? He was going to find out sometime, though, if not from us than from _somebody._ But it would hurt him to tell Jules now, and even more when he was older. I stared out the window at the black sky. It was going to be harder than I thought to keep the secret from Julian.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the daylight of his dreams  
> He would save his tears  
> He would always hear  
> When there was no one near  
> For the Summer of his years...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has A LOT of historical inconsistencies. I tried to be as accurate as possible, but I couldn't get everything in for the sake of the story. Keep in mind that this chapter has hints of depression, too, but there are puppies at the end, so that's happy. I'm so sorry if this makes any of you uncomfortable.

We started recording for Magical Mystery Tour that August, after we’d gotten everything together. Sgt. Pepper’s was starting to wear off on the public, and they were waiting for something bigger and better from the Beatles.

I’ve never understood why Magical Mystery Tour didn’t get as much appreciation as Sgt. Pepper’s did. The songs were relatively the same, with songs like _The Fool on the Hill_ and _Strawberry Fields Forever_ comparing to _When I’m Sixty Four_ and _A Day in the Life._ Anyway, we put as much hard effort into it as we possibly could.

Of course that came with no shortage of clues I’d hidden. I put as many as I possibly could. I didn’t care that Maxwell might find them. Besides, they were hardly even noticeable, and if the fans weren’t looking for them, they would never suspect a thing.

The months crawled by slowly, but we trucked on. Billy’s bass playing and singing was improving, and Brian congratulated him one day with a brand new bass. It was impressive, and he played it for the rest of the album. I think the bass fueled his productivity.

I hadn’t seen Brian around much lately. He didn’t have a lot to do since we stopped touring. When he came to see us, though, he never looked very happy, and it worried me, because I knew how depressed somebody could get. I didn’t want Brian to feel that way...but I never asked him about it in fear that he would get angry.

He came into the studio on August 23rd, looking considerably rumpled. “Hey, Eppy,” George said as he walked in. “What caused a visit?”

Brian shrugged, immediately lighting a cigarette, climbing the stairs to the control room. Ringo and I shared a concerned glance. He’d never done that before, just pretty much ignored Geo’s greeting. I watched as he appeared in the window of the room. George M. looked worried about him too.

“Okay, boys.” he said, leaning into the microphone. “Try the last three measures again, somebody messed up.”

We began to play, but my mind was hazy with thoughts of Brian. We had always been closer than anybody else, so would he tell me his troubles if I asked him? Brian had been depressed for a while now. I tried to focus on the music, but it was hard.

“Good.” George M. said when we finished. “Uh, okay. I’ll get the tape, and you can take five.” He turned off the mic and we dispersed. I knew exactly where I was going, though: up to the control room.

“Hey,” I said as I closed the door behind me. George M. looked relatively distracted, so I sat on the table next to Brian. He was staring off into space, and didn’t acknowledge me at all. I took a deep breath, getting ready to address him. I wasn’t used to being so nervous like this, especially with talking to _Brian._ “Eppy?”

“Hmm?”

“Uh...are you alright?” I murmured.

Brian blinked a couple times, like he was trying to phase back into reality again. “Yeah.” he said. “Why?”

“You’ve looked pretty shitty lately.” I said bluntly.

Brian turned to me. “I have…?” he said, sounding distant.

“Yes.” 

“Oh. Yeah, I guess I have…” he said.

“What happened to you?” I asked, playing with one of my shoelaces. “You used to be so firm and headstrong, now you hardly come to see us, and when you do you hardly say much at all.”

“Listen, Johnny, I’m just going through some things.” Brian said, readjusting his position in his chair. “It’s nothing to worry about, I promise.”

I scowled at the wall. “Are you sure? You don’t need any help with...anything?”

“No,” Brian shook his head firmly. “I’m just fine.”

Pretty unbelievable, but whatever. I jumped off the table and got ready to go back down. But my head was still spinning with anxiety and concern. What was up with Brian?

Two days later, we travelled by train to Bangor. We’d grown rather interested in Indian culture, so we decided earlier to attend a ten-day seminar about meditation. We were all enormously excited, including Billy, surprisingly. Even a few friends of ours: Mick Jagger, Cilla Black, and Marianne Faithfull went with us. Of course, Cyn accompanied me, with Pattie and Maureen as well. (Ringo and Maureen had been worried about their second son, Jason, who had only been born one day before, but we assured him he’d be fine with the nurses in his care.)

The train ride was fantastically fun as well. I hadn’t been on a train in a long time, so Cyn and I enjoyed it. I had completely forgotten about Brian’s issue for the most part.

The man leading it was called Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, and was a good friend of ours, for the most part. He was very wise, at least from what we’d seen on the _People and Places_ program on television. The day before we left, George, Paul and I had gone to a lecture in the London Hilton and found him wonderful, so we agreed to accompany him to Bangor.

It was odd, though, to travel places without Brian or anybody else in his respect. It was strangely thrilling, though, like a little child going to the candy store without his parents. It was like, a bit, going somewhere without your trousers on.

The whole seminar so far was going great. The others and I were learning so much we could hardly think of anything else. George and I enjoyed it out of everybody else, and after everybody went to sleep we’d sneak into each other’s rooms and talk about the day.

On the morning of August 28th, the phone rang. I groaned, lifting my head from my pillow. Cyn was still asleep, so I wandered over to the phone and took it up as quietly as possible. “John Lennon.” I said, not bothering to make myself seem awake.

“John?” 

I was immediately woken up by that worried voice. It was Brian’s butler, Antonio. He was a very shy man who didn’t speak English very well, but his voice sounded truly shocked and shaken. “Antonio? What happened?”

“John, I…” Antonio said, pausing to swallow, “I don’t know...if you know, but...M-Mr. Epstein, he’s...dead.”

Immediately I dropped the phone, and it clattered to the ground. My eyes grew wider than a full moon, and my hands started shaking uncontrollably. I didn’t know what else to do but stand there, shivering like it was 10 degrees. 

Cyn had been awoken by the phone dropping, and she was padding down the hall. “John? What happened? Did you drop something? John!”

She must have noticed how awful I looked, because she rushed over and picked up the phone. “Hello? Oh, hello, you’re Mr. Epstein’s butler, aren’t you?” she said into the phone. “Oh...oh dear.”

She turned to look at me, but I couldn’t say anything. I was just numb. Feeling was disappearing from me like water going down a drain. 

Brian was _dead._ Another person I cared about, I appreciated, I _loved_ was gone. First Paul, and now...now Brian? What could I have done better? How could I have helped him? 

What did I do to deserve this?

We cut our visit short and went back home. Ringo, George and I were all considerably more gutted than Billy was, but he tried to be as supportive as he could.

When we got back to London, the first thing we were greeted with was an interview. Thankfully George did most of the talking for me, even though I said a few things. I just couldn’t believe it, still. I felt like I was watching myself from a few feet back, like I was a ghost. 

We didn’t go to his funeral. We didn’t want to attract press or interviewers and decided to let his family have some peace. It was hard, because I’d wanted to go. George knew I did, so he sent one of Brian’s friends, Nat Weiss, a single chrysanthemum to put on Brian’s grave. 

We found out later that flowers were forbidden at Jewish funerals.

I found it hard to go on after that. It wasn’t fair to anybody that all these things had to come crashing down. At least we did not have to replace Brian and cover it up. It was hard enough to do that with Billy.

The pain of Brian’s death brought back an old grievance: Paul’s. I hadn’t felt this much sadness since then. What would Paul think of all of this? Would he keep us going if he was here? I wished I could just talk to him about all of this, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t talk to anybody, or, wouldn’t talk to anybody. I locked myself away. 

One evening Billy called. It was the third day I had just laid in my bed, trying to figure out...what to do now.

“Hey, John?”

“Yes?” I said, relieved to hear his voice, in a way.

“This probably isn’t a good time, but…”

Silence for a second.

“I was thinking about getting the new puppy today.”

I sat up slowly, supporting myself with my palm pressed into the bedsheets. At first I was irritated. _Oh, yeah, right after our manager dies you decide it’s a wonderful time to get your new dog? Why would you do that? Why would you only think about yourself?_ “Why?” I muttered.

“Well, I thought...maybe if you went with me, it would cheer you up a bit. We could talk on the way up there, you know, just...have some time.”

Then I started to consider it. Billy wasn’t only thinking about himself, really. Maybe a new dog would cheer us all up a little bit. At least it would get my mind off of Brian. “Okay.” I said with a sigh. “I’ll be over in a minute.”

So I put on real clothing for once and headed over to Billy’s house. The sight of somebody familiar made me feel better. Billy had just gone through his third surgery, and he was like an exact double of Paul now, pretty much. We got in his car and began driving up to Wycombe.

“So, how have you been?” Billy said, around twenty minutes onto the road.

“Not good,” I said briefly.

“M...me either.” Billy sighed. “I know it’s not really fair, but I miss him a lot too.”

“Yeah, well, he was your friend,” I said, staring out onto the fields we were passing. “It’s fine to miss him.”

“I didn’t think...well...I never thought he’d go so fast after we met.” Billy said. “It’s only been a year since I...became a Beatle, I guess.”

“Oh yeah, it has been a year.” I said. Wow. A whole year since Macca died...a whole year without him. I’d never thought I’d make it this far without breaking. I guess George, Ringo, and Billy made it a bit easier on me.

Would I be able to go a lifetime without him?

We eventually got to High Wycombe. Billy parked at the bottom of a massive hill on rough rocky ground. I got out, letting out a breath of cold air. It was November now, and it was getting a lot chillier. We could look forward to snow soon.

“Where do we go from here?” I asked, slightly wishing I hadn’t gone as a bitter wind passed through. Billy looked immune to it, hardly bothering to don a light jacket.

“Up!” Billy said with a grin. I moaned.

We painstakingly climbed up the hill, braving the icy gales and steep treks. Eventually, after what seemed like hours, we got to a nice meadow with a cottage and a barn clustered around. 

Billy went ahead of me, excitement evident on his face. I stood at the top of the slope leading down to the cottage, letting the wind push me from behind. The thought came to me that...we really were lucky to have Billy. The guy on the telly screen that fateful day could have been a real jerk, but we got a soft-spoken, really kind lad. I smiled and followed him into the house.

There was a nice old couple inside, with a man about Billy’s age inside. They had sat down for tea, and Billy was hanging up his hat. “Who is your friend?” asked the old woman as she set tea in front of the man.

“Oh, this is John. Remember, Nabby? He’s my...work friend.” Billy said. He turned to me with a glare that said a million things at once, one of them probably being, _don’t tell them you’re a Beatle, it’ll ruin our secret._

Based on the fact that they needed to know my name, I thought I was pretty safe. “Hello,” I said with a polite smile. 

“Oh, John, this is Nabby, Dale, and their son, Ronnie.” Billy said. “Ronnie is an old friend of mine. He gave us our old dog, Martin.”

“Oh,” I nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s mine.” Ronnie answered. He was tall and fair, with a mop of brown hair on his head and grayish eyes. He was peering at me like he recognized me but couldn’t quite name me, and it made me uncomfortable as I sat down at the oddly small kitchen table. 

I watched Dale sip his large coffee as Nabby set some tea down in front of us. “So, John, Billy says you’re a work friend. What do you do again?”

“Oh, we’re in the...music business.” Billy shrugged.

“Why do you look so different?” Ronnie said quickly. “There’s something about you I can’t name.”

I nearly spit out my tea, and I gave a fleeting glance at Billy. “Oh, I’ve just gotten a few surgeries.” he said. “I’ve looked a bit rough recently.”

“You never looked rough to me, old chap,” Dale said gruffly, with a large hint of disapproval in his voice. “Ya don’t need to change the way you look. It’s unorthodox.”

Billy shrugged. “Eh.”

“Well, I know why you’re here.” said Nabby, her eyes glittering with happiness. “You’ve come for one of Daisy’s puppies, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I have!” Billy said, brightening. “I’m terribly excited.”

“We are too.” Ronnie said. “I’m tired of those pups following me around while I tend to the sheep.” 

“You’ll have to be used to it by now.” Billy said with a tilt of his head. “Daisy’s had three litters, hasn’t she? Where did all of those pups go?”

Ronnie shrugged. “We gave away most of them, and two ran off.” he said. It made me antsy to see how little he cared about the dogs. “A few folks from town bought two of the five from this litter.”

“So there’s three left,” Billy nodded slowly.

“Well, go see them, we’ll have supper ready in a jiff.” Nabby smiled. I liked her, as she seemed like a kind old woman, and I thanked her as we migrated to the barn outside.

It was dark, but Ronnie pulled the chain to a few lightbulbs up ahead. In one of the vastly empty stalls there was a large, fluffy dog, with three yipping puppies around her. She stood up to greet Billy, lapping at his hands, but largely ignored me. 

“You can go ahead and choose one. There’s two boys and one girl.” Ronnie said. Billy hummed in acknowledgement and sat down in the hay as the puppies ran all over him. I waited outside the stal, but I watched Billy as he looked over each puppy that crawled into his lap.

“They’re a good batch this year, Ronnie.”

“Thanks.” the lad said. He turned to look at me, but I avoided his gaze as nervousness prickled into me. Did Ronnie know who I was? He must. Everybody knew who the Beatles were!

“Hey,” he finally said after a few minutes, proceeding to fulfill my worst nightmare. “You’re that John Lennon chap, aren’t you?”

I gripped the stall door and wondered what I should say. If I said _yes,_ then Ronnie would find out that Billy was supposedly _Paul,_ and then that would lead to a whole mess. If I said _no,_ he would surely look on TV or in the paper and find me a liar which meant Billy would supposedly be Paul _again,_ which led to another whole mess. 

“No, he’s not John Lennon,” Billy laughed. “He’s just a really... _really_ similar doppelgänger.”

“Oh,” Ronnie said, not sounding particularly sure. I was relieved once more, and I took a deep breath in gratitude for Billy after Ronnie had looked away.

“This one is really sweet,” Billy added from down in the hay. “She’s just sitting on my lap while I pet her. I think I’ll take her back home.”

“Oh, that’s Martha.” Ronnie said. “Yeah, you can have her.”

Billy stood up with the little pup in his arms. Daisy whined as he carried her out, but Billy rubbed her head. “Don’t worry, little one, you’ll see her again. I’ll bring her round every so often.”

Ronnie shut the stall door, and we went back into the house. “She’s a good one.” I commented to Billy. Martha was half-asleep as Billy rubbed her back. She was adorable, too, and I felt like she’d be a good animal to have around.

“Which one did you pick?” asked Dale when we sat around the table. There was some kind of stew in the middle, and Nabby began serving it.

“Oh, I got Martha.” Billy said. The puppy was now napping in his lap, completely ignoring the food on the table. “She’s a real cute thing.”

“She is.” Dale nodded. “Always liked her the best.”

Billy smiled and glanced up at me. “Hey, John, could you go put her in the family room on the couch? There’s a blanket there.” He lifted her up to me, and I nodded. I weaved around in the hallways until I found a room with a couch and a few armchairs. There was indeed a white blanket on the couch. 

I padded over and tucked her inside the folds, sitting next to her and rubbing my hand across her back. Martha was actually very comforting and calming, and she made me feel better just petting her. I knew she would be a good solace to me, and all of us, in the time of Brian’s death.


	10. Chapter 10

Magical Mystery Tour was released that November. We were all very proud of the album, but it was very odd not to have Brian there for the release. We tried to make the best of it anyway. 

December came close, and before I knew it, it was the week of Christmas.

“John.” Cyn said as she ran into my office one Sunday evening. “Ringo’s hosting a Christmas Eve party next week! He invited us!”

I leaned forward in my chair. “Really?”

“Yes!” Cyn was practically giddy. She always loved parties with friends. “Billy’s going, and so is George and Pattie! There’s bunches of other people coming too! Can we go?”

“Of course we can go, Cyn.” I said. “Next Sunday?”

“Yes, and there’s a White Elephant and everything!” Cyn said. “We have to bring gifts. And we should get a wine, too, and maybe Maureen will let me bring a dessert…”

“Can Julian come too?” 

“Oh, of course. Zak is going to be there, and so is Jason.”

“Jason’s not even a year old, Cyn.”

“Still. You say we’re going, I say we’re going, we’re going. And that means all of us.” Cyn grinned as she left the room.

All of us were fabulously excited the studio. It was a relatively fun week, because we didn’t have to record anything and our album was out and soaring high.

That Saturday Cyn dragged me and Julian to the grocery store, where we bought too many things, including a bunch of ingredients for banana bread that Cyn had insisted to make, even if Maureen had “told her no so many times her tongue fell off.” Julian and I were bored, so we bought a cookie to share in secret while Cyn cleared out the store.

On Sunday, Julian had stood firm on wearing a tie to the party, so we went out to get him a green, red, and white striped that he wore around the house the entire day. Before I knew it, the clock turned 7, and it was time to go.

“Julian.” Cynthia was saying as we put the bread and wine in the backseat. “Make sure you hold onto these. If they don’t break, we’ll let you stay up late tonight.”

Jules was so fueled by the idea that he gripped the two bags until his knuckles turned white. We drove up to Sunny Heights in Weybridge, our car more fueled by thrill than gas. When we got there, there were already a couple cars in the driveway. People were coming inside Ringo’s overly decorated house like ants parading into a picnic.

“Okay, Julian, good job.” Cynthia said as she lifted our son out of the car. “John, could you grab the－hi, Pattie!”

I steadily shut the car door with my foot as Pattie and Cynthia hugged each other. George offered to help with the wine, and I gratefully obliged, right as a loud Christmas carol exploded from inside.

“Hey, John! George!” Ringo said at the door. We dumped our gifts onto him, and he carried them inside with us. I managed to get through what seemed like hundreds of greetings before bursting into the family room.

I was relieved to see Billy sitting on the sofa and talking with George M. and a woman I’d never seen before. Of course Martha was sitting at the woman’s feet as she lovingly scratched her head.

_ Well, if she likes dogs, I’ll go,  _ I thought with a mischevious smile. “Paul!” I said, plopping down and giving a glance toward the woman. She didn’t react. I had to keep myself in check tonight; if I called Billy  _ Billy  _ once, I’d be dead.

“Hey, Johnny!” Billy said, offering me a drink as I bent down to say hello to Martha. “Merry Christmas.”

“Hi, I’m Linda.” the woman said, leaning forward to shake my hand. She was very pretty, with long strawberry blond hair and gleaming blue eyes. “Paul is just telling us how he got Martha. She’s a very pleasant little dog.”

I nodded and leaned back into the cushions. I watched how Billy looked at Linda, and how she looked at him. There was something familiar about it. Like...romance?

_ Oh, god, no,  _ I thought.  _ He is not getting any bird tonight. _

“So, Linda, what do you do?” asked Billy. 

“I’m a photographer.” Linda shrugged. “I take pictures of things! I have a few photos of you four from 1964, but not many. I was still a newbie then.”

“You’re American,” I observed from her accent.

“Oh, yeah, I am.” Linda said. “But I live in London right now because of work. It’s very pretty here, and I quite enjoy it, but I’m a bit of an outcast when people figure out I’m American.”

“It doesn’t bother me.” Billy said with a smile. I shifted uncomfortably and sipped my drink.  _ Stoppit, you fool,  _ I thought, wanting to smack him. 

“Hey, everybody!” Ringo called above all the talking. “While dinner’s on, let’s get ready for that White Elephant!”

There was a half-hearted cheer as everybody circled around the sofas and chairs in the room. George and Pattie squeezed next to Billy and I on the couch, and Cyn perched next to Maureen on one of the armchairs. Julian and Zak ran around, giggling.

Ringo held out a hat. “Okay, everybody draw a number.”

The slips of paper went fast, and I got number 9. Billy got 20, and George 16. “Who’s number one?” Ringo said, scanning the room.

“I am.” Keith Richards stood up and migrated toward the massive pile of gifts on the table. I had my eye on the wide, flat one in the center, and I crossed my fingers he wouldn’t nab it.

“Alright.” Keith looked over a small square on and unwrapped it quickly. It was a box of guitar picks, and everybody laughed. “Who brought these?” he demanded jokingly as he sat down.

“Who’s next?” Ringo said, glancing around.

“I’m number two!” Pattie stood up and went over to the gifts like an excited child. She lifted up one and tore the paper off. It was a fuzzy white sweater, and her face lit up with joy. “Yes, a good one!”

“I’m going to steal that.” Cyn said from her seat.

“No!” Pattie gasped as she sat next to George, guarding the sweater with her arms. Cyn beamed, and I couldn’t help but do the same.

Soon it got to my turn, and I went over to my preferred gift. “The bigger the better.” I commented as I tore the paper off. It was just a box underneath, so I broke it open to see a guitar case. Now everybody had crowded around to see what was inside.

I gently undid the latches on the guitar case, and when I opened it, there was the most magnificent guitar I had ever seen inside. It was so clean I could see my reflection in it. “What a catch.” George said from behind me. I picked it up gently and ran my hand down the black body and across the pick ups. When I looked on the back, somebody had written in Sharpie,  _ to John, from Paul. _

I glanced up and looked at him. “How did you know I’d pick this one?” I asked, my voice hardly audible.

Billy shrugged. “I guessed!”

I sat down on the sofa, still staring at the guitar. I knew nobody would steal it, it was too precious to me. The rest of the White Elephant was a blur, because all I could see was the guitar. I was so grateful to Billy I could hardly even stand it.

Soon it was done, and dinner was on. The table was covered in a million types of food: ham, turkey, salads, stuffing, bean casserole, mashed potatoes,  _ roasted  _ potatoes, cranberry sauce, gravy, and a little bit of chicken. “You’ve outdone yourself, Maureen.” Cyn said as she sat next to me.

“It wasn’t much, really.” Maureen said in reply.

I scanned the table, and scowled to see Billy sitting next to Linda. They were still  _ looking at each other  _ in that  _ way. _ I guess I coudln’t be angry if Billy bought that fabulous guitar, but I wanted to explain to him that he can’t pick up birds anymore.

“John,” Cyn nudged me. “You look so angry.”

I took the glare off my face with all my effort. “Sorry. I was just...thinking about something,” I assured her. 

I couldn’t stop watching Billy and Linda. Their chairs scooted closer together by the hour. All through dessert they talked, and it looked like they were really  _ enjoying  _ each other’s company. I dug my fingernails into my palm so hard that my entire hand was white.  _ Stop!  _ I wanted to scream.  _ You’re going to ruin our careers! _

Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. I stood up. “Hey, Paul,” I said, trying to keep myself from seeming to firm. “Our car was having some issues on the way here. Maybe you could look at it?” I stared at him unblinkingly, so I guess he took the hint.

“Okay, sure.” he said, a bit confused. I led him outside into the backyard, attempting to keep myself from turning around and just letting it all out. We stood under the orange light of the porch. “Why’d you call me out here?”

“What are you doing with that Linda girl?” I demanded. 

“We’re just having fun, why?” Billy answered. “Is it really that big of an issue to you? Can’t I have fun with birds?”

“No,” I answered. “Because if you get too  _ close,  _ she’ll find out that you’re not Paul!” 

Billy’s gaze hardened. “But, I kind of  _ am… _ ”

“No, you’re not.” I said. “You’re not Paul, you’re Billy. You’re Billy to me, and to everybody else who knows, but not Linda! You’re Paul to Linda!”

“But I really do like her, John.” Billy said, sounding hurt. “We just connect so much, and she loves Martha...why can’t we just have a little relationship? We won’t  _ do  _ anything－”

“Yes, you will.” I snapped, hot tears coming to me. I didn’t know why I was so angry; I could have just told him calmly. I guess all of the frustration I had built up was finally tumbling out. “Eventually she’s going to want to do something.” I told him. “And then don’t look at me when she figures out that you’re a  _ liar _ !”

Billy’s eyes grew wide and he took a step back. “John…”

“No.” I went on. “You can’t just act like you’re Paul to me! You can’t act like you can do whatever he does! Paul’s dead, Billy! He’s dead! You’re not him, you’re Billy  _ goddamn  _ Shears!” Rage was coming like a flood. I couldn’t stop it. “You are  _ not Paul McCartney! _ ”

Billy stared at me, shocked. Then his face twisted into a scowl. He took another step back and then walked away, not turning back to look at me for another second.

I watched him, panting. The adrenalin was wearing off now, and all I could do was feel guilty. What had I done?

Just then I heard a voice behind me. It was small, timid, and sounded scared. “That’s not Paul?”

I turned around, petrified.

It was Linda. 


	11. Chapter 11

I froze, not knowing what to do. I didn’t know how long Linda had been there, and how much she had heard. I felt sick, and my head spun so much I had to lean back into the porch rail to steady myself.

“What do you mean...he isn’t Paul?” Linda repeated. 

I didn’t answer her. The guilt was about ten times stronger now. In yelling at Billy for spilling the secret I had done it myself. I wanted to cry.

“You have to be joking, right?” Linda hesitantly stepped forward and stood next to me. “He’s Paul McCartney...right?”

I closed my eyes. I didn’t really have a choice but to tell her. She’d already heard too much anyway, and me trying to cover it up was just going to seem fake. “No. No, he’s not.” I said.

Linda’s face was pale. “So then...where’s Paul?”

My glasses were blurred with teardrops. “Dead.”

Linda covered her mouth with her hands and didn’t say anything. The silence was louder than a million screams, but I felt like screaming in my head.  _ Can I die now?  _ I thought, glancing up at the starry sky.  _ It’d be a great convenience. _

“So...who is he…?” asked Linda.

I crumpled to the ground like a piece of paper. I didn’t want to answer her. It was too hard for me to go on like this, and I had ruined everything now. Cyn and Julian were going to die, and so was I. So was George, Ringo, and everybody else who knew the secret. I was a failure. Maxwell was going to kill me.

“I won’t tell anybody.” Linda promised. “If it’s a secret…”

I turned around to look at her. “You won’t?” My voice creaked like the steps of abandoned stairs. “You…”

Linda held my hands and picked me up. “It’s okay. I won’t tell anybody.” she said again. “Don’t cry.”

I sniffed and wiped my eyes. “I’m sorry…”

“For what?”

“I ruined it...you probably don’t like him as much now that you know he’s not Paul.” I said as Linda took me over to one of Ringo’s tables and chairs. 

“That’s not true.” Linda said softly. “He was a perfectly charming man. What’s his name?”

I blinked at her. “You promise you won’t tell anyone?”

Linda nodded. “Promise.”

“His name’s Billy.” I said. “Billy Shears. He...he’s a double…” And then it all came out once more. The whole story. Linda listened calmly the whole time, just like Cyn did in the bathroom so long ago. “The reason why you can’t tell anybody is...well...you’ll die.”

Linda was nodding again, taking in everything. “That makes sense.” she said. “Well, not the fact that Maxwell will  _ kill  _ all of you, but...the reason why I can’t tell anybody. It’s not fair.”

“Yeah,” I shrugged. Then I remembered Billy. “Oh, shit…”

“What?”

“I...I yelled at him…” I said, standing up. “He got me that guitar...and all I did was  _ yell  _ at him.” I turned to Linda. “Do you know where he is?”

“No,” Linda shook her head.

“We have to find him.” I said firmly. “C-could you come with me? Please?”

Linda glanced back at the house, considering it. Then she narrowed her eyes. “Yes. I’ll come with you.” she said. 

We hurried to the driveway, but Billy’s car was still there. “Is he still in the house?” I said to myself, going over to his car. There was a white piece of paper in the window wipers. “What’s this?”

Linda looked over my shoulder. “He wrote something on it.” she said, taking it from me. “It says:  _ gone off for a drink. I’m at the Jolly Farmer if you care. _ ”

“The Jolly Farmer.” I echoed. “That’s a bar.”

“Let’s go, then!” Linda said. 

We piled into my car and drove off as fast as we could. I was fueled by guilt and the need to apologize, and Linda read every sign in the city before she finally spotted Jolly Farmer. “That’s it!” she said. “Park the car!”

I parked by the side of the road and we both got out. The bright lights stung my eyes, and our frosty breaths mingled as we slowly opened the door.

It was pretty dark inside, as all the lights had been turned down low. It was relatively quiet except for the faint sound of  _ Jingle Bell Rock  _ playing over the speakers. The bartender was half-asleep as he dried a glass.

Linda and I sat at the bar. “Have you seen a young man named Paul come in?” I said, hoping Billy hadn’t left yet. 

The bartender gestured toward the back of the bar. “There,” he grunted. We slid off the seats and weaved through the tables and chairs. 

In the back of the bar, I heard a bit of talking. It sounded aggressive, and I felt myself get uneasy. “Paul?” I said, stepping over to a table. There were three guys around it, and I couldn’t see who was sitting there.

Two of the guys turned around. “Who’re you?” the tallest one asked, looking me up and down. “Oh, you’re one of the  _ Fab Four _ .” His tone was mocking, and I gritted my teeth. “Come to sing us a song?”

Linda stayed back, but I went ahead. Billy was cowering at the back of the table, his eyes wider than I’d ever seen them. “Listen,” I growled. “You leave him alone.”

The shortest one grabbed my jacket with iron-strong fists. “Or what?” he said, nearly pushing me back onto the ground. “There’s three of us, and one of you.”

I looked past him to Billy. He was looking at the table, eyes narrowed. He was still angry at me, which was reasonable. I’d been a pretty shitty friend to him.

Adrenaline coursed through me again, and I threw a punch at the lad. He stumbled back while the other two jumped to defend him. Soon it was them on me, and I was severely outnumbered.

“Billy!” Linda cried. I glanced up to see Billy grabbing onto the tallest guy’s back and throwing him off of me. I stood up and whirled around, and together we managed to fend them all off. 

The three of them, bruised and bleeding, glared at us. They left the bar in a huff, without saying anything. I panted, watching as the door closed. My face stung, and my nose was bleeding, but I wiped it anyway.

“Thanks.”

I turned to Billy. He wasn’t looking at me, but he didn’t seem angry anymore. I remembered why I had come and sighed. “I’m sorry for yelling at ya, Billy. You don’t have to forgive me if you don’t want to, but…”

Billy finally looked at me. “I do.” he said. “I forgive you.”

We stood and stared at each other for a bit longer before I caved and pulled him close in a hug. He tensed at first, but then he returned it. I didn’t realize how much I appreciated him until then, and even though he wasn’t the real Paul, he was still an amazingly great friend to me.

We drove back to Ringo’s house and were immediately met by a wall of worry. Everybody had been wondering where we were and why we looked so battered. We just said we’d gotten into a little skirmish at a bar and everything was fine, and that seemed to satisfy everybody.

Not long after it was time to leave. “Thanks, Ritchie!” I called as Cyn and I carried a tired Julian out of the house. I shut the front door behind me and handed him to Cynthia before going over to Billy and Linda. They were sharing words by Billy’s car, so I decided not to disturb them.

I slumped into the car, so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open. “Did you have a good time?” Cynthia asked as we drove back home.

I leaned back. “Yeah,” I said, huffing a laugh. “I had a really great time...just a great time.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's India time my guys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this chapter has plenty of its historical inconsistencies, mostly the Yoko part. But then again, this is a different timeline from the actual world.

“And...it’s gone.” 

The last of my moustache dropped into the bathroom sink, and I stared at myself in the mirror. “This is the new John,” I assured Cyn. “The _1968_ John.”

Saying “1968” still felt weird to me, but it was indeed that year. It was January now, and it was the first time I’d seen myself clean-shaven since a while ago. I was tired of having facial hair, because it was gross and kind of awful-looking. Billy had shaved his too, and so had George and even Ringo, who had been awfully attached to it.

We were planning to go to India in February, for a meditation course by the Maharishi. I had convinced Cynthia to come with me too, and she had begrudgingly agreed. George and I were a lot more excited than Ringo and Billy, but they had agreed to go too.

At the studio, we went crazy with talking all about it and what we were going to get from the trip. George was excited about learning how to meditate, while I was mostly looking for...well, the answer to a pressing question I’d had for a while. The question was, well...if I could see Paul again. I didn’t know how I would do it, but I wanted to know if I could. And that fueled my desire to go.

January passed so slowly that it was almost unbearable. I decided to busy myself with rebuilding my relationship with Billy. He was still a bit heated at me, even though he had forgiven me for the most part. It was like our roles from 1966 had been reversed: I was the eager-to-talk one, and Billy was the slightly-more-closed-off one. He still chatted with me a lot, but it wasn’t the same as before.

“Maybe you could ask the Maharishi about it?” George said one day as we were walking to get some lunch in the rain. “He’ll probably know what to do.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I said. “Do you think so?”

George had nodded in reassurance. “He’s the Maharishi. He specializes in those kind of things!”

So, on February 15th, Cyn and I flew to Delhi. George and Pattie went as well. We landed in Delhi and were met by Mal Evans, or roadie from the touring days. He had arranged a six-hour taxi drive from there to Rishikesh, where the trip was supposed to take place. It was incredibly boring on the way there, so we ended up playing I-Spy for the last two hours of the trip.

When we got there, we were met by a long rope bridge. We had to walk across it to get to the ashram. Cyn was worried about it, so I held her hand as we slowly and worriedly crossed the bridge.

The Maharishi met us there with a bright smile. “Hello!” he said. “I see you are all here now?”

“Yep,” George answered. “Paul’s coming on the 19th, but we’re here now…”

“Good, good…” the Maharishi said with a little nod. “Well, let me take you to your rooms.”

We went around the ashram, staring at everything (well, as much as we could in the dark) and taking it all in. It was very pretty there, and I enjoyed it a lot. The Maharishi led us to a little cottage, and inside there was a four-poster bed, two chairs, a dresser, and an electric heater, which was surprising. We fell onto the bed and slept for longer than I had in a while.

I woke up late the next day to sun streaming through the windows. I got out of bed and stretched, terribly excited. We were finally there, in India!

I yawned, wondering if George was awake yet. He was probably a million times more excited than me, but I wanted to share my thrill with him. I was going to find the answer to my question here, and then hopefully all my problems would be solved.

Cyn woke up not long after me. “So, we’re finally here,” she said as she brushed her hair down with probably the strongest brush in the world. “It’s so pretty.”

“Yeah,” I nodded as I dug through my suitcase.

“So what are we doing first?” asked Cyn.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “I think we have to wait for Billy and Ritchie to get here. Maybe we’ll just walk around and explore, I guess.”

“That’s good.” Cyn said. “I can’t _wait_.”

The next four days were relatively boring. We looked around the ashram for the first two days. It was beautiful there, if not a little run down, which really only added to the flavor of the place. There were plants everywhere you turned, and even little pods for meditating in the trees which looked like heaps of fun to sit in. 

We got to a balcony of sorts, and there was the most spectacular mountain view I’d ever seen. I stared at it for what seemed like hours, completely entranced. It was amazing. I was going to have the greatest time there.

On the 19th, Billy called. He told us that Ringo had gotten a bad reaction to an inoculation so they had to stay there for another night. I was a bit disappointed, but I was concerned for Ringo. Moreover, I just wanted to get our trip going instead of waiting for them! But as they planned, Billy, Ringo, and Maureen got to Rishikesh on the 20th of February.

 _Finally!_ I was overjoyed to see them crossing the footbridge. Our trip to India was finally going to begin.

When we got to our first meeting after arriving, we were already three weeks late into the course. So, as expected, an awkward silence filled the room when we filed in. You could cut the tension in there with a knife. It was wildly uncomfortable as the other three sat down, so, trying to clear the air, I padded over to the Maharishi and patted him on the head. “That’s a good little guru,” I said. He smiled, and thankfully, the room exploded in laughter. Relieved, I sat next to Cyn to get started.

The lecture was a lot more boring than I thought it would be. I mean, I don’t really know what I expected, but it wasn’t that. Maharishi just sat up there and talked. I needed to distract myself.

I looked around the room, trying to see who I could recognize. I saw Gyp Mills, the sculptor, the actress Mia Farrow and her sister, Prudence, Paul Horn, Tom Simcox and Jerry Stovin. I didn’t really know anybody else, which made me a bit uncomfortable, as I’d always known a lot of peop－

_Woah._

I full-on pulled to a stop. There was this woman in the front of the group. From what I could see, her hair was raven-black, long and wavy, and she wasn’t very tall at all. I leaned forward ever so slightly. She was Asian.

And, holy _shit_ she was pretty.

I knew Cyn was sitting right next to me. But _wow._ I watched her for the entire remaining point of the lesson. She left quickly, which bugged me, as I’d wanted to talk to her. As we poured out of the room, I peered over the group to see her. But she was already gone.

“What are you looking for?” Cyn asked, which scared me out of my wits. I turned to look at her, and sighed, shaking my head.

“It’s nothing.” I assured her. “I just saw someone I thought I knew…” 

The next couple days were lessons, lessons, and more lessons. But seeing that woman there every time made it a bit more worthwhile. Yes, I knew it was _bad_ to look at a woman when I had a wife, but I was going to...do anything. You know? I had a wife, and I was loyal to my wife...yeah…

I finally caught her one evening as she hurried down a stone path to one of the cottages. She was faster than fast, and she wasn’t even running. “Hey!” I called from a few feet behind her. “Excuse me…?”

She turned around, and I was greeted with fiery black eyes. It unsettled me at first, and I paused. But her voice was soft and calm. “What is it?”

“I’m...I’m John,” I said, awkwardly sticking out my hand for her to shake. “I’ve seen you at the lectures recently.”

“Oh.” the woman nodded. “I’m Yoko.”

 _Exotic,_ I thought briefly.

“Is there something you need?” Yoko asked after a moment’s pause.

I shook my head. “Oh, no. I just wanted to say...god, you’re gorgeous.” I swallowed. That was pretty bad, but whatever. 

Thankfully, Yoko looked flattered. “Thank you.” she said with a polite smile. “I really must go now, so…”

“Oh, sure. I’ll...I’ll see you around.” I said.

Yoko nodded slowly. “Well, I’m...leaving tomorrow…that’s why I wanted to fit in as many lectures as I could.”

Disappointment slapped me in the face. “Maybe we could write?” I said, trying to keep her for as long as possible. Those eyes really got me. “I want to keep in touch.”

Thankfully, Yoko agreed and we exchanged addresses. As I walked back to the cottage, I couldn’t believe my luck. But there was a part of me that felt guilty. I had a wife, and I fancied another girl. 

_No,_ I assured myself as I watched Cyn fall asleep that night. _We’re just friends. We’re just friends._

I sighed. _But friends don’t tell friends they’re gorgeous, John._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned next time for some scandal :000


	13. Chapter 13

Soon the Maharishi felt that the lessons were a bit to strict for us, so he canceled them. Instead, he told us, we should practice lengthy meditation so we can really “connect with ourselves”. So we went off and did what he told us. 

I didn’t know how to do a lengthy meditation. I asked George, but he just told me it was self-explanatory: meditate for a long time. I was a bit irritated at that. Well, I can’t just sit still and hum for three hours in a row. How was I expected to do that?

I climbed up into one of those tree-pods one morning while Cyn, Maureen, and Pattie went to town to buy some cloth for the traditional Indian clothing we were supposed to wear. I sat up straight, making sure to face the mountains, and sat there. And thought.

I thought for a while. It was 1968 now. Two whole years since 1966. Paul had been dead for a while now. I wondered what he would think of all this meditation stuff. Knowing him, he’d probably regard it as stupid and silly. That was always Paul, being sensible and smart, mature and put-together. It wasn’t till after he died that I really started to see how he kept us all sane. Sure, Billy was fine and great, but he didn’t really...well...how do I put this? He didn’t really know what Paul knew. He was just a bit more dopey and a little airheaded. I didn’t like to think of Billy that way, but it was true, and I wasn’t going to deny that. 

I missed Paul. I really did...and I wanted to see him again so bad. I’d do _anything_ to see him again, actually. I sighed and rested my head on my hands. At least I always had memories. I sat there, relishing in the recollections that popped into my head. I smiled to myself, thinking of the church festival when we met, and the awful days in Hamburg that we suffered through together. I liked to remember Paul’s crisp answers to stupid interview questions, and the way his head bobbed around when he played onstage. I always loved his massive brown eyes, and the way he could just connect with somebody without even having to try. He sure did that with me.

I didn’t realize that I’d been crying till I felt my face get warm. I sniffed and wiped my eyes. The pleasant feeling of Paul slipped away like a good dream fading into harsh reality. I had been in the pod for a while, too. Dark clouds had covered the sky, and rain threatened the ashram.

I sighed again and climbed out of the pod, trying to get back to our cottage before getting soaked. Thunder rumbled across the sky, and soon rain started to fall. 

Strangely, I didn’t walk any faster. Actually, I slowed down, enjoying the storm. I didn’t feel worried I’d get wet. I stopped on the path I was walking on and tilted my head up. The smell of rain filled me up, and the sound was beautiful. 

Paul had always liked storms.

 _Would it be stupid to pray now?_ I thought. Who would I even pray to? Paul? He wasn’t any god. Would he even hear it? _Oh well, here goes nothing, I suppose_.

I took a deep breath as raindrops clouded my glasses. “Paul,” I said out loud, not caring if anyone heard me now. “I miss you a lot. More than you could have ever known. I’m sorry that we replaced you with Billy. I know he wouldn’t have been your first choice, but...he’s doing well. I thought you might like to know that…”

I let the rain drum on the ground. I listened for any kind of response, not that I expected to get one. But, somehow, just being there was enough of a response for me. “You shouldn’t worry about us,” I started up again. “I’m doing fine. George is having a blast here, and Ringo...well...he’s functioning.”

The drops splattering across stones sounded a bit like laughter to me. I smiled. “I just...I just miss you, Macca. I hope you hear this, or it’ll be a big waste of time on my part. I’m already wetter than a puddle.”

I noticed lightning flash in the distance, so I kept going on back to the cottage. As I got to the door, I couldn’t help but feel this odd sense that Paul was right next to me.

“Ew.” 

I glanced up from our lunch the next day. Billy was scowling at his spiced eggplant with outrageously large passion. “This is probably the worst thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“Well, not like you can expect anything else. This _is_ India, anyway.” I answered, to be followed promptly with George’s elbow jabbing my side. “Ow.”

“I think it’s great.” Pattie remarked from next to George. “Mm! Never had anything better.”

“I can’t tell if that’s sarcasm or not, but I’m going to hope it is.” Billy said, getting up, probably to throw his food away. I couldn’t really argue with him. I never thought any of this was good, but it wasn’t like I was going to eat anything else anytime soon. 

Ringo shrugged from across the table. “Well, my intense allergies made me lucky this time.” he said. “I’m allergic to pretty much all that, so I get to eat Heinz beans.” He cracked open a can at that moment and began to guzzle it. George gagged as he chewed.

“Why do you have so many cans of beans?” asked Pattie, sounding concerned. Ringo proceeded to explain how he’d packed two suitcases: one for clothes and the other for Heinz beans. All I noticed was Pattie’s sister, Jenny, looking particularly exhausted from across the table.

“Jenny,” I said, but it took her a few minutes to respond. “ _Jenny_.”

She jumped, and her eyes lit up for a minute. “Yeah?”

“You look like you just got out of bed.”

“Oh,” she said, rubbing one eye, “I don’t really feel that well.”

“She has tonsillitis.” Pattie explained.

I grimaced. Tonsillitis. Ew.

Billy came back and sat next to her. “Apparently the Maharishi’s got us a group photo set up next week.” he told us. “He’s ever so excited.”

“With us _Beatles_ or us _entire group of people here_?” Ringo inquired. He’d gotten one can of beans down and was now breaking open the next.

“Everyone.” Billy shrugged. 

_Great._ I thought as I finished the last of my eggplant. We had managed to get the press out of the ashram (as it was surrounded by barbed wire), but now we had even more photos to take. “Joy of joys, I’m thrilled.” I said irritably as I stood up.

Cyn turned to look at me. “John? Where are you going?”

“Somewhere else.” I snapped, throwing my plate away and leaving the dining hall. My mood had soured recently anyway, and I didn’t feel very happy. I felt awful from insomnia and jet lag, and I just wanted to be by myself most of the time.

_If only Yoko was here._

Okay, okay, yes, I know it was bad to pine for another woman while I was married, and I felt horrible for it. I had recently come to terms with the fact that I did indeed fancy Yoko, but lord knows I wasn’t going to tell anyone about that. Cyn would be crushed, devastated, miserable. She would leave me forever. We had a _son._ I couldn’t let Cyn know I liked Yoko.

As I fell onto the bed in our cottage, I pleaded my brain to shut me down and let me _sleep._ But it wouldn’t, as per usual, so the most I could do was write.

I had written one thing in India so far, and that was _Cry Baby Cry,_ but it was unfinished. I didn’t want to finish it at the moment, so I tried something new. I pulled out my guitar and strummed it slowly.

“I’m so tired…” I yawned. “Hey, there’s something.” You can make a song out of anything, can’t you? I yawned again and began to mumble to myself. “My mind is on the brink...I can hardly think...nah, that doesn’t sound good…”

Eventually _I’m So Tired_ was done, for the most part. Not my best, but whatever. I had a meeting with the Maharishi anyway. I leaned my guitar against the wall and went out to find him.

He was at the meditation dome on one of the rooftops. There was a slightly intimidating Indian man painted on it in a blue shade, and I noticed Maharishi’s silhouette inside. Of course, he was meditating.

“Oh, yes, John,” he said when I came in. He sounded wonderfully excited as he moved over for me to sit. The remaining rain had all come inside the dome, and it seeped uncomfortably on my legs. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yeah, I do,” I said. I was going to ask my question now. I took a deep breath. _How do I say this without being weird?_ “Is there a way to...uh…”

The Maharishi stared at me in earnest.

“Is there a way to see people after death?”

He paused and stared at me for a moment. It was like the world had frozen, and it unsettled me. “Well, John,” he finally said. “There is a way to see people after death, if you’re not really seeing them, anyway. You have to really be conscious of their presence in your life. Then you will notice them in everything. Even the clouds in the sky could be somebody you have lost, if they want to show themselves that way. They are always here with us, but we just have to be concious of that.”

I stared at him for a solid five minutes, probably. _Really?_ I thought. _That’s the answer you’re giving me?_ I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t stupid. Dead people don’t send things. Ghosts aren’t real, angels, whatever. That was _not_ the answer I wanted.

The Maharishi blinked in concern. “Do you understand?”

“No…” I said uneasily. “I mean, really see them. Like physically.” I was pleading with him inside my head to just tell me how, if there was a way, tell me _how._ _I want to see Paul so bad!_

The Maharishi glanced out at the blue sky. “I don’t think there is a real way to see them physically.” he said curtly. “I have never done it, and I am a very spiritual man.” He began to chuckle, but I didn’t think it was any laughing matter. I stood up and left without a word and left. 

No, no, no! Everything was crashing down. The _one_ person I thought would be able to solve my problem was...was _laughing_ at it! I kicked a pinecone across the ground, trying to control my anger. Could anybody help me?

Maybe I should just die. Then I could see Paul. 

_Woah there,_ a little voice said in the back of my head. _That’s a little much. Don’t wanna die, do you?_

I was considering it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok ok yes i know i know let me explain first
> 
> i was quoting "yer blues" at the end of that. of course, i know that john's mental health was in the can around that time but it definitely was not because paul died. mental health is very very serious and i'm not going to stand here and pretend like i know how it was for him, because i don't. just want to clarify. always love yourself. 🍋


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Poor Maharishi. I remember him standing at the gate of the ashram, under an aide's umbrella, as the Beatles filed by, out of his life. 'Wait,' he cried. 'Talk to me.' But no one listened." --Jenny Boyd

The weeks passed slower and slower. It was turning on that this retreat wasn’t going to be as calming as everybody thought it would be. The extended meditation was making everyone crabbier than an old man, and people were taking it way too seriously. One guy meditated for 42 hours in a row, and Pattie once for seven hours. Prudence Farrow would  _ not  _ come out of her room and stop meditating, no matter how hard everybody tried to get her out.

During the retreat, George turned 25. That night we had a big birthday party, but it wasn’t my cup of tea. There was chanting and sitars everywhere, but I wasn’t really enjoying myself much. I still couldn’t sleep and I felt like shit. I wanted Yoko here so bad I could scream.

I want you so bad, it’s driving me mad, it’s driving me mad. 

On the first of March, Ringo and Maureen left. Mostly because of the food, but also because one day Maureen refused to leave her room because a fly was buzzing above the door frame. I didn’t really mind them going, as I never thought Ritchie cared about it much in the first place. But what I  _ did  _ care about was Billy leaving in the middle of March.

“Why are you going?” I asked as I watched him pack.

“I don’t like it here much,” he answered with a sigh. “It’s buggy and hot and I’d rather be in England in my own bed instead of here.”

“But…” I began, “what are you going to do there that you can’t do here?”

Billy rolled his eyes and just left. I watched the door close behind him. What was happening to our relationship?

But the most odd thing that happened there occurred towards the end of our stay. Mia Farrow had been looking very troubled recently, and it was very obvious. She avoided the Maharishi as much as she could. Eventually, Nancy Cooke de Herrera told us that Mia told  _ her  _ that the Maharishi had been...inappropriate with her.

We were all shocked, of course. There was no way! Nancy said that the Maharishi had been “stroking Mia’s hair” during a puja ceremony.

“So what did you say?” I asked. We were all sitting in a gazebo on the water: me, Nancy, George, Pattie, Cyn, and our engineer, Alex Mardas, who had joined us a few weeks earlier.

“I told her she’d just misinterpreted his actions,” shrugged Nancy as she weaved a daisy chain. “I didn’t know what else to say. You don’t think the Maharishi could really do that, do you?”

“I don’t think he would,” George said. 

“But Mia wouldn’t lie about that.” Cyn added softly. “There’s no gain for her in telling a fib! If he really did do that, then…” 

“But he wouldn’t!” Alex protested. “He’s a holy guy.”

“He’s still a human,” mused Pattie.

That caused us all to stop talking for the moment. I was mulling it over in my head. Cyn was definitely right: Mia wouldn’t lie for no reason. And Pattie was right too...even though he was supposed to be a holy man, he still had a  _ conscience.  _ He still had  _ will power. _

Over the next couple days, all of us watched the Maharishi with extreme closeness. He was acting normal, if not getting a little  _ too  _ close to this one woman. I don’t remember her name, but Alex said she was a “nurse from California”, and she was blond and skinny. That’s all we knew except for the fact that the Maharishi had supposedly had an encounter with her.

One Saturday evening Alex got us all into a little corner and whispered something intriguing. “I heard that the Maharishi was going to that gazebo we were at the other night!”

“Yeah, so?” George said with a head tilt.

“That woman from California said she was going too!”

“Ooh,” all of us hummed in interest. 

“We should go see what they’re up to!” I suggested. 

“No, they’ll see us, you idiot.” Alex hissed.

“I didn’t mean go right out there!” I rolled my eyes. “We should...I don’t know... _ spy  _ on them.”

“Yeah!” Alex’s face lit up. “Who’s going to go with us?”

“Not me.” Cyn said, and Pattie and Nancy agreed.

So it was only George, Alex and I that went to the water that evening. It was wildly thrilling, and I couldn’t help but feel a bit jumpy. We pushed through the trees and got to the river.

The gazebo wasn’t empty, but we couldn’t quite see if the Maharishi was even out there. “Who’s going to go in?” George whispered suddenly.

“I won’t,” I said, and Alex shook his head, not wanting to get in the water either.

I ended up going.

The river water was cold as all get out, strangely enough, but I went under anyway. It was murky and honestly kind of disgusting, and I cursed Alex in silence for making me go. As I swam through the water, I eventually slammed my foot against something hard.

Of course, it took all the effort in my body to not scream out in agony, but tears nicked my eyes as I brought my head above water. I’d kicked the bottom of the gazebo. I was there!

I reached up to grab the railing of the gazebo and peered in. I couldn’t see much, and I was trying my hardest not to make any noise. I pulled myself up further.

The Maharishi and the woman were in a... _ suggestive  _ position, and he was running his hand through her long blond hair. The man had an odd look in his eyes, but I recognized it. He loved her, obviously. It made me sick. I very quietly dropped into the water, hoping I didn’t splash at all. 

When I got back to the shore, George and Alex pulled me out. I was sopping wet and freezing, so before I told them anything else we hurried back to the cottage. 

Once I got some dry clothes on, the three of us assembled outside, as Cyn had been asleep on the bed. “So?” Alex said, obviously very intrigued. 

I explained what I saw, and George and Alex’s eyes grew wider with every word. Alex looked oddly thrilled with the story I had told, and George looked furious. “That’s all a load of shit.” he said. “I don’t believe a word of that!”

“Come on, Geo, John saw it!” Alex said. 

“I don’t care what he saw, I don’t believe it!” George growled before storming away.

Alex and I watched him go. “Well, he doesn’t think it’s true,” he said with a shrug. “But I do. I’m going to leave tomorrow. I’ve had enough of this place anyway.”

“Me too,” I agreed. Everything was a mess in my head, and I was trying to put it together. “I’ll tell Cynthia in the morning.”

That night I could hardly sleep, but it wasn’t because of insomnia this time. I was so angry, and confused, and lost. The Maharishi wasn’t this great guy...at least, not the one I thought he was. That morning, I told Cynthia we should go. She agreed, but she didn’t understand why I thought the Maharishi had done all these things. She didn’t believe me.

The next morning, April 12th, we packed our things. It was raining hard. Surprisingly, I saw George and Pattie at the gate to leave. “You’re going too?” I said, shocked.

“Yeah,” George said with a grumble.

“I had a bad dream about the Maharishi last night.” Pattie admitted for him. “I think we should go too.” 

“So we’re just going to leave?” Cyn said. “Shouldn’t somebody talk to him? At least  _ tell  _ him we’re going?”

I sighed, closing my eyes. “I’ll do it!” I volunteered. I wanted to say a few more things to him anyway. So I left my luggage with Cynthia and went up to the Maharishi’s place.

“John.” he said, inviting me in. I sat down at his table, and he poured me some kind of tea. I didn’t drink it. “Is there something wrong?”

“We’re leaving.” I said coolly. 

The Maharishi’s bushy gray eyebrows went up to his hairline. “What? Have I not provided enough for you? Why are you leaving?”

I scowled. “If you’re so cosmic, you’ll know why.”

I definitely didn’t expect the brutal expression I got from that comment. “You were a bit rough on us,” I said further. “There was more, but…”

“I don’t know why,” the Maharishi said, his anger fading slightly. “You must tell me.” 

Tired, I stood up. “I’m tired of giving you answers when all you gave me was a flimsy response to my issue.” I snapped. I flung open the front door and stormed out. The Maharishi was obviously following me.

“Wait, John, please stop…” he begged, but I kept going. “I don’t understand what you mean!”

I got to the gate of the ashram. “Come on,” I nudged Cyn, and she began to hesitantly go across the footbridge. It was swinging with the wind and rain battered the wood.

“Explain yourself.” growled Alex from behind me. 

The Maharishi went from being confused to understanding in a blink. He sighed and shrugged. “I...I am only human,” he said.

Alex glared at him and began following us across the bridge, George and Pattie behind us. George gave one last look across his shoulder, and Pattie watched the Maharishi beg us to come back. But we kept going anyway.

The trip back home wasn’t much fun. We all went back to England in an irritated state of mind, all for different reasons, though. I just wanted to sleep when we got home, so sleep I did. It felt much like that fateful night in 1966, when I had been so exhausted I slept for twelve hours.

That retreat in India was pivotal for the unraveling of our band, but I hadn’t even seen the worst of it yet.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know that I said this fic was done, but I wasn't really satisfied with the ending, so I decided to touch it up a little bit. 🍋

“One more time－”

George Martin stopped the recording. “Okay, and there we’ll get the violins in.” he said. “Thanks, George.”

“Yeah.” the youngest Beatle nodded as he put his guitar down. We had been recording _Piggies_ that August, one of the last songs to record on the “White Album.” We were pretty proud of this album, actually. But I wasn’t happy about my personal life at all.

Me and Cynthia were going through an awful divorce. Part of the reason was that Yoko and I had been seeing each other a lot...not dating, but just eating dinner occasionally and talking, which could be described as dating to most people. But we had been seeing each other bunches anyway, and Cyn wasn’t happy about it.

Another person who was against it was Billy, surprisingly. Ever since we got back from India, he had been more distant...from all of us. But he still spent plenty of time with Julian, whether it was when Cynthia invited him for dinner or when we brought him to the park together, they had an inseparable bond now that made me a bit envious.

Billy had been angry and shocked when I told him of our divorce. “But what about Julian?” was the first thing he’d said that evening.

“Julian will be fine.” I said. “Cynthia has agreed to take him.”

“He’s a five year old kid.” Billy protested. “He needs a mother _and_ a father! Can’t you stay together till he’s a bit older?”

I sighed. “We can’t wait for Jules to get older for his life to start to happen.” I said. “Bad things are going to go on. Julian’s five but bad things can still happen.”

Billy’s eyes grew dark. “He’s still too young.”

“He’ll be fine,” I said. “I’ll see him every so often. I’ll write him letters. I won’t leave his life forever.”

Billy was going to say something, but he retracted it. I figured the conversation was done then, and I went back to whatever I was doing.

The next week Billy came in with about three papers in a neat stack. He put them on the piano. “I’ve got a song.” he declared.

I was surprised that Billy had even attempted to write a song. “How does it go?” George asked as Billy opened the piano. He played a few notes before settling on a chord he liked. Then he opened his mouth and started to sing.

“Hey, Jude...don’t make it bad…”

My eyes grew wide. “Take a sad song, and make it better.” He glanced down at the keys and then played the next couple notes.

 _What the hell_ ? I thought. _Why is this actually good?_

“Remember to let her into your heart. Then you can start to make it better.” 

“When did you write this?” Ringo said. 

“Oh, all this week.” shrugged Billy. “It’s an easy song.”

“It is.” George said. “But it’s grand. Here, let me see it.”

The next couple weeks were spent recording _Hey Jude._ Of course I knew exactly what it was about from day one. Julian. Billy had written it for Julian. There was no doubt about it.

 _Hey Jude_ was insanely popular with the public. Every time I turned on the radio there’d be another channel playing it. Playing Billy’s voice, calling him Paul McCartney. I started to get anxious that somebody would realize it didn’t really sound that much like the real Paul, but apparently it did, so everybody was satisfied.

I didn’t like the fact that Billy was here anymore. Earlier in his time as a Beatle he’d been strangely lovable, kind, and inexperienced, but now he was starting to realize that he could do generally anything he wanted with his fame. He was getting smarter and I did not like that at _all._ He didn’t seem like a close friend to me anymore. Now he was just a distant man who I somehow happened to work with. I didn’t have Billy or Paul now. I felt more alone than I ever had.

Maybe that was why I pulled Yoko in. Maybe that was why I invited her to the studio, let her critique our songs and kept her by my side all the time. Through the next year our relationship grew substantially. But I still didn’t tell her that Billy wasn’t Paul. Although I hadn’t heard from Maxwell or the MI5 since ‘67, I was still going to abide by their rules as much as I could.

It seemed like such a long, long time since Paul had died. And though the pain of missing him was still there, it was dulled. It was more of an ache than a pinch now. But sometimes aches are worse. I hated how he was fading away from my memory. Every day little aspects of him would leave. I wanted him back. I wanted to trade him with Billy...even if it was bad. I didn’t want Billy around anymore, talking to us like he knew everything about studio work. I just wanted Paul. 

I told Yoko all about this, and she tried to comfort me. Of course, I didn’t tell her about the fact that Paul was dead, I just told her that I was annoyed by “Paul” and just wanted him out. And that was when she suggested I leave the band.

Of course I wasn’t gonna _do_ it. Well, that was what I told myself. Leaving the Beatles? What would the point of that be? We had replaced Paul with Billy so there would be four Beatles. And if I just left...I couldn’t do it! There would be no more Beatles if I left.

But would that be such a big deal?

We’d had our run. For nearly nine years now we’d been going and going, producing records and making music. I was tired of it. I wanted to do something other than Beatles. I wanted out of this cage that was “the Fab Four.” But I didn’t really want that, did I? My thoughts clashed like black and white. I was done. I needed to be done.

And then, over a year after Hey Jude, our worst nightmare came true.

George came into the studio that October. He was downcast, but more horrified than sad. “They found out.” he said firmly. “They...they know.”

“What?” I stood up from the piano. Thankfully Yoko was at a doctor’s appointment, so she hadn’t been able to come with me that morning. “What do you mean?”

“I was...listening to the radio.” George said. “They...they found all the clues. They talked about it for an _hour._ ”

“Talked about what?” Ringo said, concerned, but I knew. They had found out that Paul was dead.

“God, John.” George said with a gasp. “Why did you have to hide all those clues and backmask the tapes? They played them all...they pointed out every clue!”

Terror struck me like lightning, and I fell back, having to lean against the piano. “Now we’re all gonna die! Me, you, George...Maureen, Jason, Zak...Pattie, Cyn, Yoko, _Julian_!” George went on, his voice coated in fear and anguish.

“Stop!” I said, covering my face. _No, no, nononono….this can’t be real,_ I thought. My mind was racing at a million miles an hour. _They couldn’t have found it. I－I hid them too well…_ I regretted everything at once. _I...I shouldn’t have put them in at all…_

Ringo’s eyes were wide, and his face was pale. “No,” he whispered. “We have to...can we...do something?”

“We just have to do everything we can to make sure that the rumours stop. Maybe Maxwell will give us time to fix it?” George said, voice shaky.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. “We have to do that.” I said. “We can’t let anybody figure out anything more...we...we can’t let everybody we love die…”

I knew Billy should be here, but he was on his honeymoon with Linda. They’d gotten married that March and had taken an annoyingly long holiday. I didn’t want Linda to die too. She was a good friend of mine.

Despite all our attempts to shut down the rumour, it only grew. Fans across the _globe_ were finding every clue I had hidden. By the end of the year people were clamoring to know if Paul really was dead. It was crazy, and we were all on the verge of going insane. Everything was building up to this massive mess: the rumours, our tensions, everything. The Beatles were going to be done. Maybe, if we just...broke up, people would be more transfixed on that than the Paul is dead thing in the first place.

On January 12th, 1969, we all went to Ringo’s house. It was around 12 a.m., and it felt weird to drive all by myself in the car in quiet streets. It was like a dream, sort of. 

I stopped the car in the driveway of the house and took the back door inside, stuffing my gloved hands in my pocket to try and block out the cold. I noticed George already in the kitchen, sipping a mug of tea, probably. I hung my coat on the hanger and left my gloves in the pocket.

“So.” Ringo said after a few minutes of silence. 

“It’s gotten way too out of hand,” George said abruptly. “Maxwell’s going to kill us now. There’s no way we can die it down.”

I would have smirked at _die it down_ but the subject was too serious. I sighed and pressed the sides of my hands to my face. “Maybe we could do something more outrageous than ever to cover up the fact that Paul is actually dead.” I suggested, getting close to my suggestion of breaking up the band.

“Like what?” Ringo said, gazing at me in intrigue.

“I dunno…” I shrugged, trying to figure out how to get from this to my main point. _Whatever, I’ll just say it._ “Break up the band?”

George’s eyes grew wide as saucers. “What?” he barked.

“Ssh,” Ringo hissed, as Maureen was upstairs asleep. Then his fiery blue gaze turned to me. “Break up the band, John? Are you completely insane?”

“Listen,” I said, sitting up straighter. “Haven’t you noticed that we’re all a bit sick of each other? I mean, Billy hasn’t come into the studio with us in ages. You two hate Yoko more than anything. Everybody’s getting tired of everyone else. I think this is as good a time as any to...break up!”

A thoughtful silence settled on the room. Ringo and George looked like they were briefly considering it. “But we can’t just break up and leave it.”

“Why not?” I said.

“Because...we have to go out with a bang. We’re the bloody _Beatles,_ John. We’re not supposed to just slip away!”

I glanced at the hardwood table. Geo was right, in a way. The Beatles had been the biggest band in the world for around ten years now, and even I knew that we weren’t just going to go away all hush-hush. “But how do we go out with a bang?” Ringo said.

“By doing what we’re meant to do.” George said, standing up. “We make music. Two more albums, then we’re done.”

So we agreed. Two more albums.

But we didn’t _record_ the two more albums like usual. We kind of played the songs like singles: we taped one and then set it aside for later, stalling on deciding which album it would go on. We decided for the second-to-last album to be called _Abbey Road,_ and feature the four of us walking across the road to the studio. It was a good idea, and we all agreed on it.

Well, we all agreed until I foolishly suggested putting clues on the cover.

“Are you bloody insane?” was the first thing Billy said after I proposed it. “This stupid rumor is already circulating the world and you want to _enhance it?_ ”

A quick look around the control room told me that pretty much everyone agreed with him. “Alright, alright.” I shrugged. “Fine. We _won’t_ hide any clues.”

But I did hide clues. Without telling anybody, of course. I asked for little odd things on the cover of the album, like requesting the numbers for the license plate on the famous Beetle to be “28IF” and suggesting that Billy kick off his shoes before crossing the street. And nobody knew that I did hide little hints, because I hid them too well. I mean, nobody relates having no shoes on to being dead, right? Right!

So there was Abbey Road. The pre-existing tensions in the studio were already mounting, and I wasn’t sure that we could even record another album. _Maybe we should just end it with Abbey Road,_ I was thinking. 

But George insisted that we did another one, because he thought that that Abbey Road wasn’t enough of a bang, apparently.

I didn’t know what to do for our last album. We spent a while trying to brainstorm, coming up with a few subpar ideas. But none of them worked.

I settled into bed one night, still wondering what we could do. I had been doodling while thinking at my desk. There were three songs left in the backlog, all of which were not very outstanding, so I couldn’t take anything from them.

I sighed, closing my eyes and hoping sleep would take me fast. 

It did, and I found myself in a garden. I didn’t really recognize it, but there was a sense of familiarity in it. Oh, and the rain was torrenting from the skies. I felt dry, though, which was odd.

I suddenly heard the garden gate open behind me, and I turned to see who it was. Through the haze of the rain I saw a tall figure, with a stereotypical “Beatle” haircut and big brown eyes. I knew who he was immediately.

 _Paul._ The real Paul.

“John,” he nodded, his voice sounding like an angel choir. Somehow I felt like Billy’s voice was nowhere near his likeness. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Is that you, Paul?” I said, already knowing the answer. 

Paul nodded, watching a flower as the raindrops made it droop downward. He didn’t seem to be showing any emotion. “Is everything okay?” I said, leaning forward to try and catch his gaze.

Paul nodded once more and then turned to look at me. He seemed unimpressed. “You’ve grown a beard.” he commented. “And you wear glasses now.”

“Oh. Yeah.” I said, suddenly remembering that I probably didn’t anything like my 1966-self. The last time Paul had seen me. “Like it?”

“No,” Paul said frankly. It hurt, but I managed to take it. 

Then I recalled another thing. Something I had wanted to do for almost four years now. Something that I’d wished to do every second of every day. I took a deep breath and then...I apologized.

“I’m sorry, Paul－” I said. I was planning to say more, but my breath hitched and before I knew it I was crying. Again. Something I was relatively used to now. 

Paul’s hard gaze melted, and he began to look like the friend I remembered again. He grabbed me suddenly and pulled me in for an embrace, and it felt so good. It felt like we hugged for hours, but I never wanted it to end. 

Finally I stopped, and pulled back to look at him. “I’m so sorry we replaced you...I-I know it was stupid...I’ve been such a tosser, and...now I never see you anymore…”

Paul blinked slowly and pulled me back. “Hush, John,” he said quietly. “I forgave you a long, long time ago. I’m dreadfully happy here, and you don’t need to worry about me. Just let it be, John.”

“What?” I looked up and stared at him.

He smiled back at me, and the rain suddenly stopped. I could see him clearly, and there was no trace of anger in his eyes. Only...love. “Let it be.”

And then I woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No disrespect intended to the actual story of "Let it Be"; where Paul's mother visits him in a dream. Anyway, look forward to two more chapters.


	16. Chapter 16

I decided to call our last studio album  _ Let it Be.  _ And, really, it wasn’t much of a beauty. But the main song was an instant hit. I loved the song more than anything I had ever written, probably, even if Billy sang it. 

We released the album in 1970, at the start of a new decade. I didn’t even have to hide any clues in the album cover. It felt good to finally close off the Beatles, and I felt like I had gotten closure from the dream I had that night.

But Billy wasn’t as calm as I was. He got angrier by the day, and around April he just wasn’t having it anymore. One night I was teaching him a difficult riff on the piano when I accidentally messed up and played an awful chord. I thought it would be fine but he completely blew up at me. 

“What the hell, John?” he snapped.

I stared up at him, startled. “What? I just made a mistake!”

His eyes were fiery with anger. “You can’t do anything right!” he said, marching over to the corner of the room and stared at the wall. “I’m  _ so  _ tired of this!”

I stayed silent for a moment, closing the piano. Sure, I could have gotten angry at him. I could have given him a piece of my own mind, I could have lectured him about how...if we didn’t give him a  _ chance _ he wouldn’t be famous today. But I didn’t. 

“I’m sorry, Billy.” I said softly. “Sorry I made you upset.”

Billy’s shoulders relaxed and his head turned to look at me, barely. He sniffed and gave a shaky sigh, pressing his hands against the wall. “No, I’m sorry.” he said. “I...I know it was just a mistake. It wasn’t your fault.”

Strangely, I expected his apology. I was going to say  _ it’s okay  _ and go back to playing, but Billy continued on. “I’ve been a massive asshole lately, haven’t I?” he said, turning to look at me. “I...I think the fame has gotten to me.”

I stood up from the piano and rested my head on it. “Me too.” I said frankly. 

“I guess I’m just so ready to break up the band, like you said we were going to.” Billy shrugged. “I want to be done with the lie.”

Quietly nodding in agreement, I stepped a bit closer to him and crossed my arms. I hadn’t felt this close to Billy in a while. “But...I don’t know what I’m gonna do without the Beatles. Can I make music on my own? I don’t know if I’d be good enough.”

“You’ll do fine.” I assured him. “People will like you for you.”

Billy looked up at me, his brown eyes big and wide. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

  
  


The Beatles were finished that April. We had one last party in the studio to kick off our new lives. It was massive fun, and nothing bad happened this time. It was a little bittersweet that we were leaving Abbey Road, and there were a lot of tearful goodbyes at the end, but I knew that we wouldn’t stop talking to each other.

I was the last one to leave that night. As I locked the door behind me, I looked back onto all that we’d done. The Beatles were over now, but...I felt like it was a time well spent. I had risen to an outrageous amount of fame in these ten years. We had broken records, gotten married, had children, produced music, and we had done it. We’d made our dream come true.

I sighed with a smile, tilting my head up to the sky. It was a pretty blue-violet, with a million stars speckled across it. I hoped Paul was one of those stars, but...at the same time, I could feel him standing next to me. 

“We did it, Paul.” I whispered. “We did it.”


	17. Chapter 17

And so I sit here, in the pale light of dawn, finishing the story. I’m done telling the secret. It’s out now...I don’t know who will actually get this book, but if you do, I really don’t care what you do with it. Tell all the world if you want! I’m done with keeping it bottled inside me, and I want people to know how we failed Paul. You can hate me for this, or all of us, actually. But now that it’s been  _ fourteen  _ years since Paul died, I don’t think the MI5 or Maxwell will do anything to us. The old kook is probably dead by now. 

Billy has done a lot of impressive things recently, though. He won the “Outstanding Services to British Music” awards this year. He produced that album  _ Back to the Egg  _ last year with his band Wings. I’m not surprised he got a new band assembled. I’m not sure Billy could do anything good enough on his own. Sorry Billy, but not really.

Let’s see, what have I done? Oh, I released  _ Double Fantasy  _ in November. I’m quite proud of that album. I’ve gotten a lot of requests for signatures on the streets. People are nice now. At least they don’t seem to care too much about the Paul is dead rumour anymore. It’s old news now, as I hardly see anything about it at all. I guess we did our job at hiding it fine, but...I still regret putting those clues in there.

My second son Sean turned 5 last October, as I did 40. We have the same birthday, isn’t that crazy? Sean is the best kid in the world. I still do see Julian sometimes. He’s grown up to be  _ seventeen,  _ but...oh lord, Sean is surely a little angel. Five years old and he already knows every word to  _ Yellow Submarine. _

I think I’m going to stop here. Oh well, it’s been a trip, sure. I don’t think anyone else will ever live a life like I have. I can’t wait, really, to see Sean grow up and release new music, and...the possibilities are endless. 1981, here we come. I’m looking forward to the future.

Oh, well, I guess this is the end now.

Signed, John Lennon

  
  
  


7 December 1980


End file.
